


Chef's Kiss

by 5moreminutes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Azkaban, Bad Cooking, Cooking, Crack Treated Seriously, Dementor's Kiss, Dementors, Draco and Hermione are legit, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Harry and Theo are peak lost boys, Humor, Like really seriously though, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Occlumency (Harry Potter), Prison, Slow Burn, The Dementor is kind of sweet, Theo is a Little Shit, Thestrals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5moreminutes/pseuds/5moreminutes
Summary: When a newly-spawned kitchen Dementor imprints on Draco Malfoy on both of their first days at Azkaban, it sets off a curious pattern of events never before seen in the dreaded wizard prison. Hermione Granger’s efforts to get to the bottom of the mysterious changes reveal there’s more to magic, and Malfoy, than she thought. With more trouble cooking up than meets the eye, can Hermione get Draco — and herself — out of harm’s way?The Ratatouille-meets-Halloweentown Dramione you never asked for, and maybe never knew you needed.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 158
Kudos: 172





	1. First Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking a chance on what promises to be a weird-but-heartfelt little ride of a fic! 
> 
> Housekeeping note!!: Unfortunately, the writing slump I hit due to election stress/holidays/general pandemic stress means I burned through what I'd thought was a reasonably generous cache, based on my previous writing pace. Please know I am actively working on the next chapter, but A. It is longish, B. I am still slower than my usual rhythm, C. I'm actually also in the midst of revising an original manuscript, so this fic has to share precious writing time. I promise I will update as soon as I'm able, but as of right now, I don't know exactly what that means in terms of scheduling. 
> 
> Standard disclaimer that anything recognizable belongs to JKR, Warner Bros, or whichever other legitimate copyright holders.

Any young witch or wizard grew up on gruesome stories of Azkaban. They heard the tales at their parents’ knee, warnings of what happened to bad little magical children who misbehaved. Ghost stories, but real, the damp stone walls and odd drips and the silent, chilling procession of the Dementors.

Most witches and wizards never questioned the stories their parents told. Even though, if they had really thought it out, a dripping dungeon didn’t entirely make sense. Prisoners survived for decades in Azkaban. If the prison was kept in squalor, in the middle of a frigid sea, one nasty cold could wipe out the entire inmate population.

The reality of Azkaban was that it was ruled by merciless, methodical care. No human guards could withstand the stark isolation of the fortress, so the Dementors tended to the inhabitants’ needs. Illness was a danger borne by filth, so Dementors swabbed floors and coated the cell bars in stinging disinfectant. Hygiene was necessary. Prisoners were rinsed, forcibly if necessary, twice per week. Food was essential of course, and there were Dementors whose role it was to prepare the gruels and stews prisoners ate, and to bring the trays to the cells. 

In return, the Dementors reaped a harvest of madness, desolation, and despair. This was another part of the story that most witches and wizards did not fully comprehend, unless they found themselves inside the prison. While it was of course true that Dementors drained the brightest memories first, most Dementors had little use for the sensations of human happiness and pleasure, however ambrosial the flavors may be. Despair was dense and glutinous to a Dementor’s taste, but filling. Insanity was fermented, crackling over a Dementor’s taste receptors. Darkness was the majority of what Dementors consumed, especially since most inhabitants arrived at Azkaban already despondent. Humans entering the prison thought they’d be stripped of happiness and left alone. They never seemed to realize the feeding would continue, year after year.

To the Dementors, Azkaban had no prisoners, only livestock.

*

It was the Dementor’s first day in Azkaban. The Dementor was newly-spawned, coming into being in the midst of a swarm a matter of months ago. It had spent its existence up to this day clinging to others of its kind. It absorbed knowledge this way, the rhythms of work and dim impressions of the sensation of feeding. It learned, from the memory of another, the emotions that pulsed off humans in waves and sated a Dementor’s need. It had time to feel hunger.

Dementors developed to be suited to certain tasks, guarding or cleaning or repairing. Whatever task needed filling in the colony, new Dementors would grow to be naturally adapted to the work. This Dementor was a feeder. It would work in the kitchens.

The Dementor’s first day in Azkaban was its first chance to feed itself, as well as its charges. This also happened to be a day when new inhabitants were brought to the prison. Long-term prisoners dribbled a low, steady flow of despondency or quick bursts of madness, but new prisoners were a torrent of _denial outrage shock horror fury fear terror disgust anguish._ All the Dementors were drawn to the feast.

As the new Dementor approached the frenzy, it caught a taste that was different. It turned its cowled head, seeking the source. A young prisoner with pale hair and gray eyes. The _fear disgust terror_ it recognized from other Dementors’ memories was there, but there was something else mixed in. Where the _denial_ should be, something different from the sensations it had learned while spawning. The Dementor had its first tastes of _confidence_ and _hope._ It instinctively shielded its prize from the others, guarding the new flavor for itself.

It was interesting. The Dementor felt curious whether the inmate would make these tastes happen again, and this too felt interesting and new.

*

Draco Malfoy had been in Azkaban for 44 days, if the marks he kept on the wall of his cell were accurate. He was no stranger to counting time. If he felt like giving matters a dramatic flair (and why not?), he could say he’d felt his days were numbered since he was 16, charged with a mission to murder, or else forfeit the lives of his own family. If he were, on some rare day, not inclined toward the dramatic, he’d most likely say the same. Live dangerously enough, and pragmatism and drama led to the same conclusions.

Count 9 months, then, from the beginning of term 6th year to the Astronomy Tower. Another 11 until the Battle of Hogwarts. Then page after calendar page as house arrest and trials and deliberation dragged on. Even Draco lost track of how many times he sat in court listening to hand-wringing over _oh, but wasn’t he barely more than a child_ and _no more so than the heroes rewarded in full, as adults, and after all, a man is dead._

Finally, conviction came, and from that point it was only another 3 months for sentencing, and Draco found himself thrown into Azkaban with the latest batch of convicts on June 5, 2001. His 21st birthday. The sentence was 50 years, symbolic of the casualties of the Battle of Hogwarts. But only 90 days until he heard whether the Magical Court of the European Union would consider his appeal.

Day 44 was only one day away from the halfway point, then. Draco scratched a line by the others in the thin beam of light that entered his cell in the early morning and felt a flicker of hope.

As soon as the feeling arrived, a clammy sensation of doom chased it away. Draco knew where to look. Most Dementors drifted at random through the halls. This one lurked in the shadows. Draco had come to recognize it. The shroud-like cloak it wore was a lighter shade of gray, and not as bedraggled at the hems as most others. The Dementor waited for him every morning, just out of range, prowling closer after he scrawled his line in the wall.

Draco hugged his elbows and scowled. A minute or two — was that so much to ask? He’d lost his fortune, his reputation, his freedom, his family (Lucius and Narcissa were both locked in here somewhere, for war crimes committed outright or aided and abetted). Was it absolutely necessary to drain every waking moment of any peace? 

The Dementor was just outside his cell now, scabby hands nearly brushing against the bars. It leaned in with a rattling breath. Draco wasn’t left without any tricks of his own, though. The Dementor could sap his ability to hold onto any feeling but crushing sadness. But he could limit the creature’s ability to feed off it. Draco methodically Occluded, shutting the mental doors one by one, locking himself in.

Mealtime was not a joy — nothing was, in here — but it was a way for Draco to anchor himself in time. The light that slanted in through the ventilation slivers in the walls couldn’t always be trusted, but it seemed that meals could. Twice a day, Dementors came around with a bowl of mushy gray pap and a crude spoon. Once a day, a watery stew with some sort of chewy protein.

The tray came in through the slot in the bottom of the cell door. Draco looked at the bowl of pap. His face twisted in confusion.

There were...chunks of something in it. Draco had forced this shit down every day, except the first day, and it was always the same goblins-awful bland gray mush. Now with translucent white flecks the size of his little fingernail on top. 

What’s more, the same light-gray Dementor had brought it, and it was now standing still in front of Draco’s cell, instead of proceeding to the next. Watching him.

With a mixture of dread and deeply morbid curiosity, Draco delicately lifted one of the flecks to his lips. It crunched.

“This,” Draco announced. “Is raw onion. There is raw bleeding onion on my...porridge, to use a _much_ more charitable term than this deserves.” He poked the spoon through, trying to scrape the pile of eye-watering garnish off the top of the mush. There were stiff little flecks all through the gruel. A surge of indignation rushed through him. The Dementor was still standing there, grisly hands folded together in front of it. Draco sneered at it.

“Were you trying to make this Merlin-defiled mush even worse than it already is?” he demanded, shaking his spoon at it.

The Dementor stayed where it was. Then, slowly, the cowled head swiveled from side to side.

Draco’s mouth fell open. A voice in his head that had to be the first sign of insanity was telling him that he had just asked what was obviously a rhetorical question to an Amortal creature of nightmares, and the creature had responded.

Draco was still brandishing his spoon at the Dementor. This was madness, but he’d been through enough madness already not to trust his own eyes. And, gods help him, this was the first new thing in 44 days.

“Were you trying to make it _better?”_

A long pause again. Then the Dementor’s head dipped and came up again.

Draco felt all the hairs on his arms stand up. Any thought of Occlumency was lost. Draco felt like he was standing on the edge of a canyon, trying not to fall in. He wanted desperately to regain a sense of control over the situation, so he reached for one of the earliest mannerisms he’d perfected as the Malfoy heir.

“This is garbage,” Draco said, voice barely wavering. “If you’re attempting to make this edible, put some cinnamon on it next time.”


	2. The Glitch

The colorful burst of sparks that erupted in Hermione’s fireplace in the middle of the night came as a welcome relief. Work was demanding — it wasn’t unusual for her to be in the office editing reports or legislative drafts until eight or nine’o’clock in the evening. But at least there was logic to it. Language was precise and led to action and change. A pile of painstaking proofreader’s marks was still finite. Editing and collating were finite, unlike relationships, where arguments changed terms halfway through and swirled in nebulous, repetitive patterns, never moving toward a solution. Hermione couldn’t make Ron understand that her leaping ahead of him professionally wasn’t meant as a competition or a judgment on his pace. He couldn’t make her understand what was so appealing about sitting on the couch in the evenings watching news on the ScryScreen instead of helping make it. They both had at least a little idea why Ron wanted Hermione to let Molly and Arthur fold her under their wing, and why Hermione couldn’t get the word “Mum” past her lips, but they couldn’t see eye to eye. The world made more sense to Hermione in the office than at home.

Hermione was on her fourth cup of Pepper-Up Potion, triple-checking the last five years’ worth of inventory reports by the time Harry burst into her office. 

“I don’t know what Kingsley’s thinking, Flooing people at one in the morning. I got in as fast as I could,” he said, still gasping a little from the run. He took in the papers spread over Hermione’s desk and, probably, the state of her hair. “Which doesn’t seem like it was all that fast, by the looks of it. How long have you been here?”

“Since about ten after one,” Hermione said. “I was up.”

A concerned look crossed Harry’s face. “Are you and Ron still fighting?”

“We always fight,” she said, trying to sound light. “We’re more stubborn than is good for us, probably. I’m more stubborn than he is,” she warned.

“Definitely,” Harry said, with a ready confidence that told her he told Ron exactly the same thing.

“But that’s not the point,” Hermione said. “Look.” She held out a sheet of paper. 

Harry took it. He frowned. “What’s this bit?”

“That’s what we need to figure out.”

The Azkaban alert system existed to broadcast a Ministry-wide Floo notification of any abnormal incident at the prison. It was meant to stop any attempted escape or break-in. In this case, however, the system had caught a glitch of some kind on an otherwise standard inventory stocking request. The inventory order forms were charmed to sense low stores in food, linens, cleaning supplies, and other necessities and auto-fill the paperwork accordingly. There was no reason for any form to include large, crude, apparently handwritten letters at the bottom. And yet.

“‘CNMNN,’” Harry read. “What in the blazes is that supposed to mean?”

“Nobody knows. There aren’t any known Death Eater cells or sympathizers under that acronym. Wartime codebreakers say it doesn’t mean anything to them. It doesn’t match Roman numerals or any Rune language I’m familiar with.” Hermione waved her hand at her desk. She’d crossed out the top page of every stack of papers that led to a dead end. She’d taken the time to note her work via sticky notes with summaries like, “Gnostic Romanism?? failed match — See  _ Cryptic Runes of the Roman Empire, _ pp. 613-619.”

“A prisoner must have written it. It’s got to be part of a plan. Someone’s trying to escape,” Harry said, with a certain amount of relish. The Department of Aurors was advancing him through the ranks as quickly as possible, but Hermione could imagine that after saving the Wizarding World, no typical beat could really capture Harry’s attention for long.

“Why would a prisoner try to communicate an escape plan via a restocking form that goes directly through the Ministry?” Hermione said. 

“What else are they supposed to use, Hermione? There isn’t a post system at Azkaban.”

“Yes, obviously, but you’d think a prisoner would at least have the sense to choose a different piece of paperwork. Some habeas corpus slip no one needs to review again, or a parole denial, or something. This actually requires a response. You’d have to know someone would look at it.”

Harry cocked his head, frowning at the letters. “The writing’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Whoever wrote this, they’re trying to attract Ministry attention,” Hermione agreed. “Not even Ron’s handwriting is that messy! They wanted us to notice this message, so I’m going through the other reports. This might be meant to distract us from whatever real message whoever’s behind this is sending.”

She didn’t want to tell Harry what she’d already made up her mind to do. Ministry bureaucracy undoubtedly meant there’d be ages of cross-checks and approvals that needed to go up the ladder, probably the appointment of a designated committee, only for this to end up filed away with other low-urgency projects to dig up “when we’re in a slower period and can dedicate the appropriate time and resources.” The best way to get real answers, Hermione knew, was go to the source. At Hogwarts, that meant the library. In this case, she thought it was long overdue for a Ministry official to conduct an in-person investigation of Azkaban. 

In order to go through the proper channels, Hermione had to get clearance for any interactions with beasts or spirits classified at XXXX or above. This meant a visit to the Department of Mysteries.

Even though Hermione had worked in the Ministry of Magic for three years, she doubted she’d spent as much time cumulatively in the Department of Mysteries offices in her Ministry capacity as she had during the course of the single battle she’d fought there. So she was surprised to hear a vaguely familiar voice as she stepped out of the Floo. It took her a moment or two to place it, but the Slytherin hauteur was apparent immediately.

“We’ll be sure to pass it along through the proper channels as appropriate,” Theo Nott drawled, in a tone that sounded much more like  _ We will throw this in a heap and you will never see it again.  _ “Thank you for taking the time to bring this to the attention of the Department.”

“Do you have any kind of timeline on when I should expect a response on this?” a testy voice asked.

“Expect? Mm, I wouldn’t,” Nott said. “Anticipate, maybe. Hoping is even better. Nice way to live, every day brimming with promise.”

“Even just an estimate of what the turnaround might look like. What’s the next step in the process?”

“It’s the Department of Mysteries, my good man, we have an image to maintain.” Nott tutted. “Where would any of us be if I went around handing out step-by-step guides, I’ve half a mind to suspect my superior put you up to this, well done sir but don’t you worry, a sinecure like this is all the world to me, it’s a good thing wizards like you are around to keep us all on our toes, thank you ever so much for stopping by and good morning.”

Seconds later, a fussily-dressed, rather red-faced wizard nearly collided with Hermione.

“Good luck getting anywhere with  _ him,” _ the wizard sneered. Hermione saw the man’s eyes flick down to the crooked letters on her forearm before he continued. “If the spoiled 28s they’ve got down here won’t listen to upstanding members of the Wizarding community, I doubt you’ll do anything but waste your breath.” He huffed and pushed past her.

Hermione ground her back teeth and knocked hard on the office door. 

“As I  _ said, _ sir—oh thank goodness, you’re literally anybody else,” Nott said when he saw Hermione in the doorway. Something in his posture changed subtly. Not anything so dramatic as straightening his position; he stayed draped over his chair at the same infuriating, devil-may-care angle, but the muscles set differently. More alert. “A war heroine, at that. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Routine clearance,” Hermione said coolly. She regretted it immediately.

“Nothing’s routine when it comes to the Golden Trio. Whatever I managed to learn in between Hogwarts blowing up every year I was there, that piece stuck. Let’s see, then.” He skimmed the parchment Hermione handed him. “Azkaban? The last batch of Death Eaters they sentenced have barely had a chance to unpack their things. I thought you’d be glad never to see anyone who’s in there again.”

“I want to follow up on the abnormality that came in last night.”

“The inventory report?” Nott said. “The brightest witch of our age is doing the grunt work of a personal trip to Azkaban to investigate what’s probably a faulty recast of the autofill system?”

“I could wait to read the conclusion on the report check, whenever it’s ready,” Hermione said. “But I’ve found some of my colleagues to take a lackadaisical approach to processing documents.”

“An all-too-pervasive problem in current Ministry affairs,” Nott said solemnly. “I’ll admit I’d like to hear what’s going on before the report ends up under the latest Archives dust colony. A few questions, then. Can you cast a full Patronus?”

“Yes, an otter.”

“Okay, good. Not the otter. Well, not not the otter, the otter is fine and also completely irrelevant for the purposes of this conversation. Can you do it wandless?”

Hermione frowned. “Who can cast a wandless Patronus?”

Nott grinned. “Mysteries abound. Not me, at least.”

“I haven’t tried.”

“You’ll want a wand on hand in the prison then. That’s fine, we’ll just need to put you back on the Trace until you’re back. Works the same as for underage, minus the threats of expulsion. We’ll be able to see the spell and location of casting, so if you try to do anything stupid, the Ministry will know. Any attempts to deliver contraband, assist prisoners through magical or non-magical means to escape, or promote conspiracy are subject to prosecution under the fullest extent of the law, et cetera.” He took her wand, traced his own over it in a careful arc, then handed it back to her. “Who else is coming with you?”

“I’m going by myself.”

“Really? I’ve never heard anyone agree to go to Azkaban alone. It tends to give people a massive case of the creeps, to use the technical term. Why aren’t Potter and Weasley going?”

“Harry has an unusually strong reaction in the presence of Dementors. Like you said, this may well be nothing more than a glitch, and he’s not the best candidate for an Azkaban site visit. And Ron—” Hermione paused. There was nothing wrong with what she was about to say. It was perfectly normal, at this stage in a young Auror’s career. The fights and shouting and sulking over this at home were the only reason the words choked in her throat, and Nott wouldn’t know what a sore spot this was in her relationship. “Ron hasn’t passed all the prerequisite Auror levels to qualify for Five-X assignments yet.”

Nott’s eyes darted up. Clearly she hadn’t masked her tension after all. But he stamped a form, slid it across the desk to her with an enigmatic smile, and said, “Enjoy your trip, Miss Granger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azkaban really is such a bountiful spring of questions for me. There's some indication in canon that Dementors can understand human speech at least to a certain extent -- they take orders from the Ministry -- but still. How would the Ministry know what prisoners need? What happens if someone does get sick or injured? How often do Ministry officials and Dementors communicate to coordinate administrative tasks? The spellcast system is my invention thanks to being married to someone in computer security. But like, can we assume that when a shipment of goods arrives at Azkaban, there's a Dementor with a clipboard waiting to check the materials against the inventory form? I'd invite you to consider a world where the answer is yes.
> 
> Oh right, and I almost forgot -- yes, Ron and Hermione are dating at the outset of this story. Sorry to anyone who hates Ron/seeing Ron and Hermione in a relationship. You are definitely still in a Dramione fic, though.


	3. Cooking

The Dementor was trying. The pale-haired young human in the east corner cell was a puzzle. It made the most intriguing feelings when it thought it was alone, and the Dementor savored them as a rare delicacy. This human was also capable of making itself blank, cutting the Dementor off. 

Dementors fed on what the humans put out. The biggest surge of  _ surprise curiosity unease incredulity _ came when the Dementor had given the human different feed. This made sense. Put different feed in, get different feed out. If the Dementor could determine the correct combinations of the materials humans consumed, maybe this could generate even more new reactions.

In the kitchens, the Dementor surveyed the array of ingredients it had to work with. In the same way that some insects can perform the complex calculations to track paths between food sources and the colony, the Dementor instantly understood that there were too many possible combinations to test in the span of a human life. Clearly, there was no time to waste.

It dribbled stripes of an orangey-red, acidic sauce all over one bowl. Feeder Dementors had a stronger sense of smell than others of their kind, mostly so they would be able to determine if any of the feed had gone rancid and might endanger the inhabitants. This smelled sharp and tingling—strong feed to produce strong emotions. The Dementor swirled more in.

Too strong, it turned out. The human took a bite and retched, eyes streaming clear liquid. It rubbed its tongue on its arm. It drank a lot of water. Mostly all that emanated off of it was  _ painpainpainpanic,  _ which was not nearly as exciting as the tingling smell had seemed to promise.

“Sweet Salazar, are you trying to murder me?” the human croaked. It pushed the bowl back through the slot at the bottom of the door, shaking its head. “If you can understand me, listen, this is literally inedible. I think I’ll actually get throat damage, never mind what would happen to my arse in a few hours. A drop or two might be okay in the stew, but you need to learn some semblance of restraint.”

Next, the Dementor tried leathery, pale tan slivers, sprinkled with black sand.

The human made a face. “All right, these are dried apples, which could have almost been an improvement, but there’s a few problems. For one, they look like bits of peeled skin. You eat with your eyes first, you know. Meaning, the presentation of a dish matters,” it added hurriedly. “I eat solely with my mouth, like anyone else in here. And what my mouth will taste is copious amounts of black pepper, which is going to be painful after a while. Again, a pinch would be okay. Welcome, even. But not with sweet things.”

Then the human picked off every one of the Dementor’s careful additions to the meal and discarded them on the side of the tray, keeping its mind shut tight.

A dish with white specks, red specks, and brown specks fared marginally better. The human still removed the brown specks meticulously.

“Onion, dried tomato, and if these aren’t beetles, it’s possible they used to be raisins, once upon a time.” The human threw a brown speck against the wall. It clicked when it hit the stone. “There’s dried and there’s calcified.” The human picked up the speck and tilted its head at the Dementor. “Onion and tomato are a passable pairing, though. Is this a fluke, or have the last few days been intentional? If you’re capable of learning, are you capable of being trained? ...I think I know what you want.” The human closed its eyes and shuddered.

But then, a slim panel opened in the blankness the human usually placed between itself and the Dementor. A thin trickle of emotion began to emerge. The Dementor absorbed the  _ fear dread _ almost reflexively, not really caring. Hunger was easy to solve. It wanted taste. When the real reward came, the Dementor devoured the scraps of  _ curiosity fascination determination, _ even the smallest hint of  _ humor  _ (the clicking sound of the raisin) that escaped through the thin gap, until the human sealed it again.

*

On the boat to Azkaban, Hermione skimmed the packet Nott had handed her. It contained information and rules. Nott had clearly been fine accepting her signature at the bottom without verifying that she’d read through the material, but Hermione had her own standards to maintain.

She’d read it before stepping aboard the ferry, of course. She thumbed pages now as a nervous tic. Azkaban wasn’t a static place, she reread. It adapted over time, and there was evidence that Dementors could undergo rapid evolutionary developments, too. The packet said inspections after the one instance of a prisoner escape showed that the bars in cell doors had slatted much closer together. Some testing suggested certain Dementors had enhanced visual abilities since that time as well. In other words, if Sirius Black or another unregistered Animagus were imprisoned in Azkaban now, transformation wouldn’t do them much good. The bars were too narrow to pass through. Hermione thought for a moment of Rita Skeeter. Some animals were tiny. A beetle, or a snake, perhaps, could flit or slither by a Dementor unnoticed. Perhaps there were other wards and safeguards in place, some analysis that would detect pulse or other biometrics and go off if a designated inhabitant left the cell.

“First visit?” a deep voice interrupted. 

Hermione looked up to see the ferry’s dark-skinned captain looking her way.

“Yes,” she said.

“Easy to tell,” he said. “You’ve highlighted and underlined, and you’re still rereading. You’d be a Ministry page, then? Curious, that they’d send a new worker alone.”

“I’m an Assistant Legislator working in the Department of Justice.”

“An assistantship, so young? You must have had quite the impressive application.”

Hermione shifted awkwardly. “I mean, I went through all the interviews and tests anyone else would. I had Os and two Es on my NEWTS. Sure, I suppose the war reputation plays a part, but I don’t think it gave me an unfair advantage.”

“Were you very involved in the war? You look like you’re barely out of school.”

She didn’t usually do this, she’d be appalled if someone accused her of saying it, but the surprise was so powerful that the words tumbled out of her mouth before her brain thought them through. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“I don’t follow politics,” he said dismissively. “My family has lived by the sea for generations, tending to Azkaban. We do not entangle ourselves with the Ministry’s power struggles. I am Charon, and I command my ship and heed the water, and that is sufficient allegiance for me.”

“You missed a whole war?”

Annoyance narrowed Charon’s eyes. “War is commonplace. How many wars must you miss, unless they come to your door?” He adjusted the ferry’s course, steering around a thick tangle of seaweed that clumped like a massive net on the surface of the water. “Look at the sky. Tell me what you’ve missed.”

Hermione looked. At first, the view meant nothing to her. Weak sunlight strained to pierce through gray clouds. Her eye drew naturally to the shape of Azkaban ahead of them, hunched and grotesque as any monster she could imagine rising from the depths. She squinted back at the sky. It had been a clear day on the shore, hadn’t it? She’d felt the sun burning on the back of her neck. And the shape of the clouds…

“They almost make a vortex toward it. Right? It’s hard to spot at first, because you’re already thinking about the prison, and you expect to look at it. The clouds actually do curve toward it,” Hermione said. “What are they?”

“Nesting brume,” Charon said. “Dementors take to it when they have need of rest, or when they prepare the new spawns to join the colony. Look how thick it’s grown. In these past few years, I saw the Dementors spawn in numbers I’d never seen since I first took command of the ferry. My father some of the new spawns are unlike any he knew in his youth. More prone to strangeness. Voldemort used some sort of magic on them. It will take me years to understand the nature of what he has done, and restore the colony to order.”

Hermione leaned forward, the papers in her lap forgotten. “You don’t even flinch when you say it. Most witches and wizards I know are still afraid to. What did your family do during the war? Whose side did you take?”

Charon smiled. It didn’t entirely reassure Hermione. “My family controls safe crossing between land and the Azkaban fortress. We attend to the Dementors. As long as any new order desires the power to use this prison, we have no need to choose a side. We live apart from war.”

“What do you mean by attend to the Dementors?” Hermione asked. “You talk about them like they’re your responsibility. Do you—train them? Breed them, or spawn them? Do you know how to kill them? Or do you just observe?”

“Dementors are non-Beings. They do not have a mating season. Nothing can induce them to spawn. Or nothing could, until Voldemort began his experiments. Dementors are not nature, so it is difficult to call what he did unnatural. But whatever is the proper course of things, it was not that, either. As for the rest,” Charon gave her the cryptic smile again. “Family orders direct my duties, and I have trained since boyhood to fulfill them. Keep your wits about you, Assistant War Heroine, and you need not fear your little visit with the Dementors today.”

“How do you do it?” Hermione pressed. “How do you live day in and day out with Dementors? Doesn’t their effect drive people mad?”

“We are immune.”

By the time Hermione stepped off the ferry and into the interior of Azkaban, her mind was already reeling. She barely knew which train of thought to follow first.

A Dementor received her at the entrance. She knew this was going to happen, of course. No human guards, and it would hardly do for people to enter and wander about as they pleased. It didn’t make it any less unnerving to direct her attention to the hooded creature.

“My name is Hermione Granger. I’m a Ministry official,” she said, holding out her badge and the inventory report. “I’m here to conduct a tour of the facility. If you are not the...um...entity...responsible for guiding me, please direct me to the correct point of contact.”

The Dementor turned and drifted down a corridor. Hermione followed.

It was dark. Hermione had expected...clanking, maybe? Or moaning? The rank smells of blood and terror. The air smelled astringent instead, almost eye-wateringly clean. The floors had circular, wet swab-marks. Hermione watched the mouldering creature floating ahead of her and imagined it with a mop and bucket. A somewhat manic titter bubbled up. Her Ministry badge was charmed with a small dose of Euphoria Elixir, meant to cancel out with the Dementors’ natural effect. It made her feel sort of punchy instead.

The Dementor took a left, passing a half-open supply closet stacked with plastic trays, and entered the kitchen.

The kitchen was jarringly bright after the gloomy hall. Hermione blinked. Her nose wrinkled at the smell wafting from cauldrons on the large stove’s burners. The thick, steamy air in the kitchen was vegetal and mushroomy, with possibly a touch of boiled laundry or wet dog. Several Dementors were stationed around the kitchen, chopping vegetables into chunks to boil into tasteless homogeneity.

Hermione stood there, her slip of paper in hand. She noticed that the Dementor that had escorted her here was gone.

“Excuse me.” Her voice sounded thin in between the muffled bubbling and  _ thwock _ of knife cuts. “I would like to follow up on an inventory request, please.” She waved it vaguely at the Dementors. “Could someone show me the system? Or let me know which...let me know which parties are responsible for any additional stocking requests placed in the last 14 days?”

A Dementor drifted away from its station. It still had the knife in its hand, and Hermione tightened her hand on her wand, but the Dementor laid the knife on a table it passed and swept by her. She almost had to trot to keep up with it, heading to the wing marked “East.” Before they even reached the wing, Hermione realized it must be populated with inmates. Breathing was such a subtle sound that she hadn’t noticed she wasn’t hearing it, until she was close enough to hear prisoners stirring in their cells.

“So someone did manage to send a message,” she whispered. “But how?”

The Dementor floated on, past prisoners who slumped on their bare cots or cowered away from the shrouded figure. No one seemed able to pull themselves out of their depression enough to even acknowledge Hermione following the Dementor, until they both stopped at one cell.

Hermione was glad, in a way, that Harry and Ron weren’t with her. She could only imagine how much teasing she’d get over the idea that she could handle Dementors competently, but that what made her heart sink was being led to Draco Malfoy.

“Granger,” he said, so casually, even with a note of that condescending irritation, as though she’d intruded on him in his private study at Malfoy Manor. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione fumbled for what to say. It felt so wrong to see someone she knew from school (however much she’d hated him) in this place. Not to mention that the other prisoners were sunk into catatonia. She hadn’t expected to find herself being questioned.

She was spending so much of her life after the war being questioned. Overthrowing Voldemort hadn’t done away with blood prejudice altogether, and she bore a mark on her arm announcing her own status. She fought all day at work to be heard despite her age, despite the concerns that she shouldn’t weigh in on post-war rebuilding because of her “trauma,” despite blood that meant some lawmakers still dismissed her as not understanding the ways of the magical world. And then she came home and fought with Ron, who didn’t understand why she couldn’t get home for dinner on time. 

Malfoy stood with one hand in the pocket of his Azkaban-issued prisoner trousers, his weight shifted to one side in an easy slouch. “It’s not enough for you, I suppose, reading in the papers that I’ve been locked away? Had to come see it for yourself.”

Hermione found her voice. “I’m not here for you, Malfoy. I’m here on Ministry business, completing an inspection.”

“Inspect away.” Malfoy swept his hand, gesturing at the tiny cell. “Standard-issue cot, you’ll find. No pillow or blanket, of course. Toilet and washbasin. The window simply floods a 10-centimeter strip of the place with natural light for about thirty minutes each morning, what a shame you’ve missed it. Tasteful stone flooring, and a tray slat at the bottom of the door for elegant prison dining. Thus concludes the grand tour.”

Hermione looked at the drab cell and down the hall. The hall angled in a gradual zigzag, isolating prisoners further from each other. There was no way to glimpse another human being from behind the bars.

“This is grim,” she said. “Even for a prison, these conditions are wretched.”

“Azkaban, unpleasant? Remarkable. No wonder you’re rising in Ministry ranks, with that keen sense of observation.”

The paper was still in Hermione’s hand. Its meaning felt more out of reach by the minute. She’d come expecting to find  _ something. _ Her intuition had never been anything like Harry’s, or even Ron’s, but she had felt so sure about the hunch that this wasn’t as simple as a spellcasting glitch. She’d seen the strange letters and felt sure that they would lead her to something special, something for once that only she would be able to find. A conspiracy in the prisoner population felt less and less possible, the more she saw of what it was like to live within these walls.

“Do you ever speak with other inmates?” she asked.

“Why would I tell you that?” Malfoy snarled. “What are you going to do to me, kill me? I doubt they’ve given even a ruthless little climber like you that kind of authority, and everything else that could happen to me already has. Did you expect me to fling myself at the bars and plead for the mercy of the Ministry? I’ll never stoop low enough to beg you of all people for help.”

Anger flashed through Hermione. “I expected as much, especially considering it was beneath you to step in to help when Bellatrix carved her word for me,  _ of all people, _ into my flesh.” She watched as Malfoy couldn’t help but drop his gaze to the rough letters in her arm. 

“Mudblood,” Hermione said. “I can say it. I can reclaim it, if I want to. I have my whole life and my whole career to make this a mark of tolerance and pride. And you can spend the rest of yours right here in your cell. I hope the knowledge that your blood is pure helps you sleep more soundly on that cot, but I don’t expect it does.”

“Are you done?” Malfoy said, deadly soft. “No, I can’t speak with any other prisoners. It’s quiet in Azkaban, Granger, just you and your thoughts. Or rather, just my thoughts and now, you. It must take a lot of moral conviction and courage to berate someone when they’re literally a captive audience in what you have identified as a particularly miserable cell. Your Muggle parents must be brimming with pride.”

Hermione’s parents were still living in Australia. It had taken two years to track down Monica and Wendell and restore any portion of the memories of having been David and Jean Granger. Hermione had expected them to choose her and undergo mind healing treatment at St. Mungo’s without question. She hadn’t prepared for how hard it would be for them to shake what they thought of as their old life in Perth, or the emotions they’d feel upon learning what she had done. They were doing distance family therapy, and the Grangers were talking with Healers in Wizarding Australia, working on a continued memory restoration plan, but they hadn’t felt ready to return to England. 

The years after the Battle had been so much uglier and messier than she’d expected. In more ways than one. 

“I didn’t want this for you,” she told Malfoy abruptly. “They didn’t let me testify on your behalf. I offered. I thought if the Wizengamot understood you didn’t have much of a choice to openly defy the Death Eaters, they’d let you go.”

“What makes you think I wanted to defy them?”

“I knew you could have identified Harry. You could have killed me in the Room of Requirement, too.” Hermione pushed her hair back. “I don’t know. I always remembered you were my classmate first. I thought it was the same for you, but maybe not.”

A Dementor glided toward them. Hermione had her back to it, so she didn’t realize it was coming until the sick, clammy bleakness washed over her. She fumbled for her badge, rubbing it to reactivate the Euphoria Elixir, and in the tumult of her emotion she didn’t register what the Dementor was doing. She only heard Malfoy’s voice raised in astonishment.

“Where did you get that?”

Hermione looked around. The Dementor drifted back from the cell. Its hands folded in front of it, and its cowl turned toward Malfoy. It looked expectant.

Malfoy looked down at the tray on the floor of his cell and back at the Dementor. “Do you expect me to believe that—?” he started. “Granger, did you put them up to this?”

Hermione still felt numb. The elixir’s effect was harder to tap into after prolonged exposure in tight quarters with the various Dementors that weaved her deep into the prison.

“Granger,” Malfoy said again. He made an irritated noise and flung one hand out at her. 

The chill around Hermione eased somewhat. Maybe the elixir was kicking back in after all. A sharp sense of awareness came back to her mind.

Malfoy crouched next to the tray, took a wooden spoon, and lifted a small scoop of gray-brown mush to his nose. He threw the spoon to the other end of the cell with a clatter. “Merlin’s bloody shits. How the hell did you get your hands on this?”

Hermione had the odd but unshakable sense that she was somehow a third wheel in a one-sided conversation. “What are you going on about, Malfoy?” she said.

“That paper you’re holding. Give me that,” he snapped. He thrust his hand out at her with such a commanding beckon that Hermione’s good-student reflex kicked in. She handed the form through the bars to him.

Malfoy scanned to the bottom of the page. “Did you write this? Granger? CNMNN? Is this some infernal code you’ve designed?”

“No,” Hermione said, feeling like she’d lost the thread somewhere and couldn’t find it again. “I came here to investigate it. No one in the Ministry is sure what it means.”

“It’s cinnamon,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s fucking cinnamon.” Malfoy crossed the cell in three long strides, snatched up the spoon, and dug it through the bowl. He held out the heaping spoonful toward Hermione. “Taste for yourself.”

She hesitated.

“Go on, it won’t kill you. Hasn’t killed me for 53 days.”

She tasted it. The underlying meal was a bland, odd sort of porridge, probably oats blended in with boiled vegetables. The warm, spiced flavor of the brown dusting speckled through it was unmistakably cinnamon. She handed the spoon back.

The Dementor glided forward, nearly coming next to Hermione. She backed a step away.

“Right, right,” Malfoy muttered, in response to what Hermione didn’t know. He swiped a spoonful into his mouth and tipped his head back thoughtfully.

“Not half bad. I told you it would make a difference. I’m not going to say I’d order this off a menu, but certainly in comparison to anything else in here, this is leagues ahead. Far and away your best effort. Don’t do anything rash and try it on the meat dish, though.”

The Dementor inclined its head and withdrew. Malfoy stayed straight, that imperious sneer Hermione remembered on his face, until the Dementor slunk out of sight. Then he nearly collapsed into a sitting position on his cot, bending his face into his hands.

“What,” Hermione said, looking after the vanished Dementor, “in the world was that?”

“The Dementor must have sent a message. That explains why they brought you to me, if you were asking who was behind it. I asked for cinnamon. The Dementor must have done something to the form.”

“Dementors can  _ write?!” _

“I don’t know, I’m not an occult expert. Apparently this one can,” Malfoy said testily, rubbing his fingertips over his forehead.

“Okay, how are you doing that? How are you so...so present? I’ve only been in here a few hours, and I’m struggling with the effects. The other prisoners I’ve seen are catatonic. How are you this responsive?”

“I’m an Occlumens,” he said without lifting his head. “I keep a barrier between what they do and where I am.”

“And what I just saw?”

“I open the barrier in exchange for better food, Granger,” Malfoy said. “It’s something to focus on. It’s very tiring. You have what you need for the Ministry. I want to be alone now.”

It wasn’t until Hermione was far from the prisoners’ quarters, feeling the actual effects of the elixir compound in her badge, that she fully understood what had happened before, with the sharp mental clarity that had found her in the Dementor’s presence. He was an Occlumens. What was even more surprising than the fact that he  _ could  _ do it was that he  _ had: _ somehow, he had chosen to throw the protection of that power over her.

*

The Dementor returned to the kitchens all abuzz. It had never seen a human interact to any meaningful extent with another of its kind before. The changes! The movement! The pale human (which the Dementor felt oddly possessive over) behaved completely differently. In the moments the Dementor had managed to observe unseen, the human didn’t clamp down on emotions. They came through freely, pointed, intended to make a change on the other. And the other human responded, sending other feelings, trading communication in a nimble, springing pattern. The Dementor had never seen anything like it. 

The kitchen looked so drab now. The heavy pots full of standard nutrition looked so dull. The Dementor felt a new, faint flicker of understanding, remembering the note of complaint in its chosen prisoner’s voice at each fresh bowl of mush. The human capacity for novelty was far beyond anything the kitchen Dementors normally considered.

The Dementor poked a long spoon in one of the bubbling pots. It brooded for a while, turning its mind over the second human, and the impression in the air between the two. 

Then it drifted through the kitchen and closed its scabby fingers over the handle of a shallow pan. It scooped small piles of ingredients inside and slid past the station where another Dementor waited to slop ladlefuls of broth into the cooking vessels. The Dementor hesitated. Then it made a decision, and put the pan directly on the heat.

Surprise. Novelty. The food pieces didn’t swell with liquid and begin to disintegrate into the same mass. They changed. Edges colored differently. New smells emerged. The Dementor thought “movement,” remembered the back-and-forth spring of voices. It shook the pan. It got bolder and lifted the pan, making the little bites of food arc through the air, too. They made new sounds when the raw sides touched hot metal. Heat was good. The Dementor coded this information somewhere in the patterns of its thoughts, and continued cooking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What bothers me about Dementors as we see them in canon is like, okay, they're soul-sucking, happiness-draining monsters, but what are they like when people aren't around? I'm not satisfied anymore by monsters that only exist to terrorize humanity. I get so curious about how they live, how they think -- anything beyond what we see when they're actively hunting/feeding. What makes magical creatures into /creatures/ with their own life rhythms outside of their relationship to people? I can't help but feel JKR left the back door ajar on that one, and now here we are. Making stir fry.


	4. Smarmy Git

“Why do you even care? He was a smarmy git before and it sounds like nothing much has changed,” Ron said.

“Becoff ihh ihhu _nane,”_ Hermione said. She spat a glob of toothpaste in the sink. “It’s inhumane,” she repeated to Ron’s reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Ron scrubbed a washcloth over his face. “That’s prison for you, I suppose. Don’t be an evil bastard if you don’t want to sleep in a cell.”

“It’s not just the cells, it’s the whole thing,” Hermione said. “The halls are crawling with Dementors all the time. I was exhausted after an afternoon, and I had an elixir handy to soften some of the effects.”

“Yeah, that’s how it works. Come on, Hermione, you knew that was what you'd see in there. You’ve got to keep prisoners under control. You don’t know who could use wandless magic and escape.”

“And the complete lack of any shred of dignity, or comfort,” Hermione said. “What about that? They eat the same porridge day in and day out, they don’t get privacy to shower, they don’t get a bloody blanket to sleep under at night.”

“My dad says the cells in Azkaban are charmed to respond to the conditions outside. They stay in a temperature range that’s safe for people, no matter what happens.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Our flat’s set to a safe temperature. Do you fancy letting me take all the blankets and leave you with nothing?”

Ron smiled. “You’re going to do that anyway.”

Hermione turned to face Ron for real, instead of continuing to talk to his face in the mirror. “I’m serious. It’s not right. There’s got to be a way to deal with Magical crime, even violent offenders, that still treats them like human beings.”

“He ended up getting what he asked for after all, didn’t he?”

“The cinnamon, you mean?” Hermione twisted her hair into a loose braid to keep her curls from getting too unruly while she slept. “Some clerk sent a copy of the inventory form through the autofill system at the storehouse end. They’ll probably get their wrist slapped for processing a document that was still under investigation, but ‘CNMNN’ was close enough for the system’s auto-correct to guess it right. I’m not talking about little frivolities, though. The entire living conditions are long past need for an overhaul.”

Ron patted her shoulder. “Going to take up prison reform as your new pet cause? I guess it’s not the wildest dragon you’ve chased. Don’t expect it to work, though, all right, love? I don’t want you to get disappointed. Folks have finally gotten You-Know-Who’s followers put away. They’re not going to agree to start waiting on them hand and foot now they’re finally in Azkaban.”

Hermione made an exasperated noise. “You don’t understand. You didn’t see it for yourself.”

The teasing look went out of Ron’s eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t. That’s your pay grade, if I remember right. Look, I’d keep going on about this all night, but I’ve got a long day of pushing paper around tomorrow, so I’m going to bed.” He kissed her brusquely on the side of the head and squeezed past her through the door and into the bedroom.

*

The righteous fury burned long enough for Hermione to storm into the Ministry offices and comb through all the fine print regarding what did or did not count as illegal prison contraband. It carried her through more sullen time at home, refusing to give into Ron’s silent treatment over his bruised ego. It warmed her on the ferry ride, which Charon considerately let her take in silence.

It was only when she was in front of Malfoy’s cell again that the feeling fizzled away and Hermione wondered what, honestly, she expected to accomplish here.

“You came back,” Malfoy said, a frown creasing between his eyebrows. The floor of his cell was glistening with water, the stones dark. Malfoy’s hair was wet, too. Hermione was used to seeing his white-blond hair styled with razor crispness. There were golden undertones to it that showed up better when it was wet. It was all mussed, and some of it fell in his eyes.

“What, er, happened today?” Hermione said. “Everything’s all wet.”

“Bath day,” Malfoy said.

“Right, of course,” Hermione said. A drop of water fell from the sink basin and landed on the floor with a faint sound. “How does that work?” she added awkwardly.

“They come with a hose,” he said.

“I see.” Hermione couldn’t tell if the intent look in his eyes was accusatory or so hungry for the sight of another person that he couldn’t help himself from staring at her like that, and either case made her uncomfortable. She set her own eyes a few inches lower. His chin was clean, and slightly pink. “They let you shave? Of all the things they let you have access to in here, how do razors make the list if a pillow isn’t standard issue?”

“I don’t know. They bring a little kit, with a toothbrush and a safety razor and a little mirror. That part comes after the hose.” Malfoy looked at her for another moment, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Was there any point to you showing up today, or did you get lost and stumble here by mistake?”

“I brought you some things,” Hermione said. She bent and wedged the brown paper bag partway through the tray slat. There was a shallow puddle of water in an indentation in one of the stones, so she didn’t want to shove it all the way through.

Malfoy stayed where he was. “I don’t need your pity. Keep your things.”

“They’re not mine,” Hermione said. “There’s a blanket loaned from the infirmary at Hogwarts. It’s hospital grade, so it won’t shred or twist tightly enough to fall under the Ministry’s contraband guidelines. There’s a few books—not mine. Hogwarts has an Alumni Borrowers’ program. I took them out under your name. The Ministry doesn’t make it easy to find, but there are protocols that allow inmates to receive certain items, if someone brings them. It’s not breaking any rules.”

“Good for you.”

Hermione shook her head. This was pointless. This was all pointless, and she had wasted half a day, and there wasn’t even a graceful way to exit this idiotic situation. “Well. Bye, then,” she said, and started walking, leaving the bag behind in its ungainly position, halfway wedged into the cell.

“It did something different again, after you came,” Malfoy said, just as she passed out of view. “That Dementor.”

Hermione stepped back in front of the bars. “What did it do?”

Malfoy crossed one arm over his body, touching his opposite elbow. “I think it tried to make a sauté.”

“What do you mean it tried?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Well, it wasn’t very good.”

Hermione stared for a disbelieving moment. Then a short laugh escaped her lips, sounding strange in the dark hall. “You’re really still like this, after everything else that’s happened to you.”

“Don’t act like you know me. You didn’t know me at Hogwarts, and you don’t have any standing to say what I am or am not like now, either.”

“All right, take it easy. Merlin forbid I speak a word out of place. I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, necessarily,” Hermione said. “What makes you think it prepared the meal differently?”

“It wasn’t slop. It was cooked with dry heat. Here. I saved you a piece,” Malfoy said. He went to the cot and pulled a small chunk of carrot from under the thin mattress. He held it through the bars.

Hermione let it dangle between her fingertips. “How did you know I was coming back?”

“When have you ever let something alone after you decided to nose into it once?” Malfoy said. He noticed Hermione take a half step away again and softened his tone slightly. “I thought maybe you’d be back with more questions. It was something new to think about. The Dementors—or at least that one you saw, it’s almost the only one that comes round to my cell anymore—it didn’t suck away that thought as much as some others.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s strange. The whole design of Azkaban is meant to strip people of anything to look forward to.”

“Who said I was looking forward to seeing you, Granger? You’re not exactly a happy memory.”

Hermione turned her attention to the chunk of carrot in her hand. “I see what you mean about this, at least. There’s clearly some browning. The texture’s much firmer than what I saw it bring to you last time, too.”

“Why is it doing this? Did the Ministry come out with anything official about that paper?” Malfoy asked.

Hermione shook her head. “I’ve submitted a report from my investigation saying the note was guard-initiated, rather than a spellcasting glitch. I doubt the Ministry will do anything about it. The only reason they were up in arms was because they thought it could be a prisoner movement. The inventory request, in and of itself, was harmless and inexpensive, and it cleared through the system fine when someone actually bothered to process it. There’s no incentive for them to devote more resources to it at this point.”

“What about the other prisoners? Did they get the new menu, too?” Malfoy said. He curled one hand around a bar. The last time he’d stood this close to her, she’d punched him in the face. She still felt that heightened sense of awareness of the angle of his face and the exact distance between his fingers and her shoulder.

“I can check, while I’m here.” Hermione had an odd little twist in her stomach. “My first guess is probably no. It smells the same in here as it did before, even near the kitchens. You’d think that would change, if they switched what they bring the prisoners.”

His voice was small. “Why is it only acting different around me?”

Hermione looked at him again. It was true that most of the time, she had to agree with Ron’s summary of Malfoy as a smarmy git. Malfoy had looked more subdued in photos of his trial, but the hair and the sneer and the cocky attitude were so ingrained in her memories of him. She’d felt bad about his sentencing, not so much because of him individually as out of a broad sense that 50-year banishment wasn’t an optimal application of justice in an enlightened society. Seeing him in person, wet and humiliated and openly nervous, turned her abstract ideals into something much more immediate. She was seeing Malfoy as he was in private, whether she’d planned on it or not.

“That’s a very good question,” Hermione said, pushing down her sense of unease. “I’d like to know the answer, too. Here. Let’s do this.” She reached into her own bag and pulled out a black-and-white speckled composition notebook and a Muggle ballpoint pen (why wizards insisted on bothering with quill and ink when these traveled so much better was beyond her). “Take this. Document everything that Dementor does. What it brings you, how it acts, whether it shows any sign of understanding you. I’ll see what I can figure out, and I’ll come back in a few days to get your notes.”

*

After Granger left, Draco pulled the brown paper bag the rest of the way into his cell. He unfolded the blanket and rubbed the soft fleece between his fingers. He laid the three books out on his cot, and read the back of one of them. It was a nice thought, and when she was standing there and the Dementors were gone for the moment, he’d had a vague sensation that it might be pleasant to pass some time reading. Granger didn’t really understand the way the bleakness of being in this place crashed down once the Dementors started roaming the halls again. Any activity seemed futile and dismal and insurmountably difficult with no real reward. Occluding helped. He’d had plenty of time to practice long-term, wandless Occlumency when he needed to keep the Dark Lord from noticing his misgivings, but maintaining mental shields against a Dementor all day left him slow-brained and tired. Reading _Hoax and Dreams_ wouldn’t really let him escape into adventures of finding rare magical creatures with Laura Thorn. He’d just be sitting on a cot, staring at black marks on a white page with no hope other than to wait out another minute.

But it was a nice thought. Draco hadn’t had someone spare him a nice thought in quite some time.

He picked up Granger’s notebook. Unlike the other things she brought him, this really was something of hers. She’d torn out a few pages of her own notes before passing the notebook to him. It took Draco a few tries to figure out how the strange little Muggle quill worked. It had a small inkpot inside the casing, and a clicky thing on top that made the quillpoint go in and out. Rather a clever design, all things considered. There was a metal spring inside, too, which Draco imagined might not fit the strict requirements for permitted materials.

As the Dementors swirled nearer, Draco heaved the mental walls back into place, like running the chains on a heavy drawbridge. It might be too hard to hold that and find the imagination to read at the same time, but he could use the clicky quill and write down what happened to him. 

Granger said the Dementor’s changed behavior was harmless, according to the Ministry. Draco’s stomach agreed—he’d suffered no ill effect from eating the new food his Dementor had brought. If he was going to trouble himself to keep notes, he may as well see if he could influence the Dementor’s behavior further and have something useful for Granger when she came back.

Draco glanced at the marks on the wall and wrote “Day 56” at the top of the first page. “All right, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this story, I thought, ooh, maybe it would feel kind of fun and naughty to try a real Ron-bashing story. That lasted all of five minutes before I remembered that what is so much more fun for me is writing a Ron who is mostly a decent guy, and means well, and misses all the important cues from Hermione nonetheless. Just as I like writing a Draco who is a prick even to his friends and expects people to understand the subtlest of distinctions between mean-because-I-hate-you vs. mean-because-I'm-teasing, but who captures Hermione's interest even with his faults. (What does that say about Hermione? I suppose I'd say she pushes herself hard enough that she's suspicious of things that seem to come too easily. She tends to look for validation and success that still aligns with the severity of her own internal voice.)


	5. Thestral

Theo Nott worked in the Department of Mysteries because it paid a comfortable salary and demanded very little actual work. The Ministry employed him because it was good PR to be able to say things like, “Look at us, we have war heroes and heroines of all blood statuses working side by side with the rehabilitating sons and daughters of Death Eaters, what a place of optimism and peace we’ve become, never mind the sloppy way we handled the war itself.” Or possibly, “Oh ho ho, don’t you worry, progressive-minded Wizarding folk, we won’t let those Sacred 28 heirs loll around as some parasitic leisure class while you grind away, why look, they’re clocking into the office just like you and me,” while simultaneously winking at traditionalists with a, “Giving that young wastrel a desk in a respectable department’s no shame on a good Pureblood family, is it, it shows young heirs the ropes of power and of course we’d never ask a sophisticated gentleman to take on tasks beneath his station.”

Theo took on very few tasks at all, in fact. He would have been extremely bored, had he not come from a House renowned for resourcefulness. He rifled through files after hours. He poked his nose where it didn’t, strictly speaking, belong, and kept an ear tuned to gossip. Sometimes he made a game of pushing off even the occasional bit of actual work he was given, just to see if his supervisor would say anything. Much of the rest of the time, he studied. Theo had been an excellent student at Hogwarts, even if his official marks had suffered because of distractions like a mysterious monster attacking students and faculty at random, or Dementors onsite, or government officials arguing with faculty about what would be on the curriculum (and the test), and torturing students in detention. He was studying for his Masters degree, specializing in the life cycle of non-beings.

He was halfway through an article in the Summer 2001  _ Journal of Quasi-Corporeal Mythics  _ when his office door slammed open and Harry Potter stormed in.

“Something’s not right, Nott, and I’ve got a feeling you’re at the heart of it.”

“I’m great, thanks for asking.” Theo put an elbow on the journal and stretched one leg out, bracing his foot lightly on the leg of his desk. “Can I be of service?”

“Hermione’s been to Azkaban twice in the last week. She’s got another confirmed out of office quilled in and at least one more tentative absence.”

“What makes you think I know anything? I’m just a spoiled heir wasting my time and Ministry payroll funds, ask anyone.”

“Your signature’s on her Azkaban travel approval form.”

“I’m touched you noticed,” Theo said reflexively.

“Nott,” Potter growled. “I want to know what’s going on.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “The official report came back today. The conclusion is that the inventory abnormality is due to an atypical interaction between guards and the spellcast system. There’s a manual panel where someone could theoretically add a custom entry on an order. Atypical interaction usually means a guard was moving supplies around and hit an odd key with its hand or cloak. If Assistant Legislator Granger sees fit to conduct additional tours of the facility, that’s higher up the ladder than I have standing to oversee.”

“She said the Dementors are changing.”

Theo tensed his foot against the leg of his desk. “Them too?”

“So there is something.”

Theo let out a dry laugh. “Potter, if you’re in the Ministry building more than a few hours, you should be able to sniff out something. There’s deeper and weirder shit than they pay idiots like us to know about. But if you’re hungry for a mystery today, I can show you something.” He swung his leg down and led Potter out of his office.

“Won’t people notice if you’re gone?” Potter asked suspiciously.

“Who cares? I’ll tell them myself. I’m going for a working lunch!” Theo bellowed down the hallway. “I might be a while, I’m setting up a small interdepartmental meeting.”

“Sod off, Nott,” came a female voice from behind some faraway door.

“That’s my supervisor,” Theo told Potter. “Thanks, Debra!” he shouted, and they left the Department of Mysteries offices.

“Got on shoes you don’t mind mucking up, Potter?” Theo said as they walked out of the Ministry building. 

“I’m a beat Auror, Nott. The whole point is to be ready for anything.”

“Good,” Theo said. Then he grabbed Potter’s arm and Apparated.

Potter’s wand was in his hand a second after they landed in a drizzling, muddy field. Theo held up his hands. 

“Whoa, whoa, steady.”

“Where the bloody hell are we?”

“Sorry. Would you just—?” Theo delicately nudged the tip of the wand away from his throat with one finger. “Thanks, that’s better. These are Ministry grounds. You want to know what’s going on under the surface, you watch the beasts.”

They were standing near a rough wooden fence. Beyond the fence, there was a view of half a dozen or so horses grazing. At least, if you were among those who could see them, in which case you’d also notice the bony wings, and possibly the sharp beaks and taloned front feet.

“Thestrals,” Potter said.

“See that one?” Theo indicated a mare with a swirl of mottled gray over her flank. “She’s a special specimen in this herd. Can you guess why?”

Potter peered at him first, before turning to watch the Thestral. “She’s the only one with a new foal, if that’s what you mean.”

“Almost,” Theo said. “She’s the only one with two new foals.”

“Where’s the other one?”

“It’s with her. Watch her. You’ll see her tending to it.”

The inky foal beside her teetered over to her left side to nurse. The mare whickered and tossed her head gently at her right.

“What you can’t tell from here about that black foal is that everyone can see it. Not just people who have seen death,” Theo said. “The other is invisible no matter who you are.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “Does that happen often?”

“It happens never, as best I’ve read.”

“Then why now?”

“Magical war bleeds past what we do to each other. Magical creatures are changing,” Theo said. 

“Hermione said the Dementors are acting strange.”

Theo crossed his arms over himself, watching the Thestral nip at the foal’s shoulder, nudging it into a more comfortable place. “Non-beings are more susceptible than we are to minute changes in magic. They evolve fast. When details like full corporeality and fixed lifespan aren’t weighing you down, mutations take more easily. A Thestral with a twin on either side of Being is a sure sign that there are ripples in magic that wizards need to watch.” Theo took a step forward and put a hand on the fence.

“What happens to her?” Potter said.

Theo looked back. “They’ll let the twins stay with her until they wean and fledge. Then they’ll kill her. They’ll want to study her brain and ovaries.”

Potter touched his glasses. To Theo, it looked like a way for Potter to discreetly put a hand up near his face, as though for protection. “For what? Weren’t two wars enough? Why is it that every time something magical shows itself, someone wants to kill it?”

“Witches and wizards used to practice haruspicy with bird entrails. It’s one of the older forms of divination. We’ve changed the format somewhat. We have microscopes now, and we document what we see in organs differently and phrase it as a theorem, not a prediction. To plenty of Wizarding scholars, she’s close enough for their purposes to being a big bird.”

“We can’t let them do that to her.”

Potter was all wiry energy, all nervous tension and wary alertness. Theo thought his pulse must shiver under his skin. Maybe he wanted to feel it. Maybe he wanted to settle Potter, the way he’d settle a Thestral sometimes if he needed it to be still, so he put his hand on the warm spot where Potter’s shoulder and neck met.

And Potter looked at him and said, “I mean it, we’ve got to make things right,” and a small, unseen thing unfurled inside Theo Nott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of promised myself that if I wrote another Dramione, I'd do a NottPott this time (after swooning over some other writers' interpretation of the pairing). It kind of occurs to me that this is my first intentional side pairing, since the side pair in my other story caught me off guard and takes up only a tiny fraction of the page time.
> 
> If I were in the HP-verse, I would 100% do a degree in non-beings. Maybe an anthropology or sociology-oriented analysis on how a culture's relationship to death is affected by the presence of death-related creatures who are invisible or exist outside of a typical birth-to-death life cycle. 
> 
> If anyone else wants to propose their magic-related Masters theses, I would be Extremely Interested to hear them.


	6. Occlumency

If Hermione was anxious at all about Malfoy being vicious or uncooperative in retaliation over how she’d seen him at her last visit, she needn’t have worried. Malfoy was on his feet and alert the next time she reached his cell.

“Right, there’s a lot to tell you,” he said. “The real point of any of this is to see if human beings can have an outcome on Dementor behavior, so Cinnamon and I have been running a small series of experiments.”

“Hi,” Hermione said. “You’re energetic today, wow. Let me get my notes out, too, and we can compare.” She stopped, frowning. “Wait. Who’s Cinnamon?”

“The Dementor that’s been making all the new dishes, of course.”

Hermione blanched. “You can’t name it Cinnamon.”

“Why not?”

“Malfoy, I don’t know if you’ve finally cracked, but you’re not in a strip club.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Believe me, Granger, I am deeply aware of that fact, and I assure you the last thing I ever want to imagine is any of the beings I get to see in here disrobing.”

“Oh, Merlin, my eyes,” Hermione said. “Dear gods. If they’re wearing robes, does that mean that at some point, someone’s seen a naked Dementor?”

“Either that or what we think of as a robe is actually an organic extension of the Dementor’s body itself,” Malfoy said. “Which isn’t necessarily an improvement. In any case, I had to call it something. Cinnamon’s the first thing I asked it for, and it did deliver. You saw with your own eyes. And it’s proving to be quite the enterprising chef-in-training, too. I’ve been teaching it how to make eggs.”

Hermione laughed aloud. “You’re full of surprises. I wish you’d been like this when we were at Hogwarts. We might have gotten along better.”

Malfoy stopped mid-reach for the composition notebook. He looked surprised, before he tightened his forehead in concentration, busying himself in flipping pages. “Ask around the Slytherins sometime, maybe I was,” he said, sounding more offhand than Hermione suspected was the truth. “The first question was whether Cinnamon could understand me at all, or if I’d been inferring abilities incorrectly. So I asked it for an egg, and showed it this.” He held up the page, showing a sketch of a pointed oval.

“Did you combine a verbal request with the picture? Because in that case, we won’t know whether  _ Cinnamon _ can understand a pictorial representation of an object or only speech,” Hermione said.

“Getting ahold of materials was the most critical problem at the time, Granger. I don’t know what a Dementor’s attention span is. Redundancy made it likelier that I’d get what I needed to attempt a lesson at all. Forgive me for introducing an extra variable.”

“Okay, no need to get testy,” Hermione said. “So did it bring the egg?”

Malfoy nodded. “I had to do a fair amount of pantomiming, but I did my best to explain the basic principles behind a boiled egg, sunny-side-up, and a scramble.”

“Yes, that makes sense. We should try to determine whether it’s able to strategize and use a range of applications for a single item. That’s a good test of cognitive ability. Have you seen any results so far?”

“In terms of culinary prowess, still shaky. Overcooking into oblivion is proving a tough habit to break,” Malfoy said. “But it’s brought an egg every morning since I showed it, and attempted the preparation I asked for twice out of four times.”

“You could have led with that,” Hermione said, scribbling a note. “It’s amazing that a Dementor is doing this at all. I’m less interested in your editorialization of its ability than in understanding why it’s showing these abilities in the first place.”

Malfoy frowned. “You think I enjoy dwelling on the fact that a Dementor has hand-picked me for whatever it is that it wants? Let me focus on whether I’m getting anything out of this.”

“Fine,” Hermione said. “I brought a basket of additional ingredients to the kitchens. Here’s the list. I’d like to see if the Dementor can take initiative and incorporate new things into what it’s doing. If it requested cinnamon, maybe it can take inspiration from other fresh foods. Make a tick mark if it brings you any of these, and we can look for any patterns that come up.”

“I’ll see if I can fit it into my schedule,” Malfoy drawled. He eyed Hermione, who showed no sign of collecting her things to go. “Was there something else?”

“I can’t get over how strange it is to come in here and find you acting this normal,” Hermione said. “I did want to ask you about it, in a way. You did something with your Occlumency, the first time I came here. Do you remember? You put it on me.”

Malfoy looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing. It was the only way to get you to pay attention.”

“Can you show me how you did it?” Hermione asked.

Malfoy set his notebook on the cot. He tapped one thumb on the back of the other hand, considering Hermione. “What do you know about Occlumency?” he asked.

“Only a little,” Hermione admitted. “Harry took some lessons from Snape, in the war, but all rudimentary defensive maneuvers. Nothing like what you did.”

Malfoy’s mouth quirked. “Am I going mad in prison after all? Have I just heard Know-It-All Granger herself admit ignorance on a subject?”

Hermione bristled. “There’s hundreds of subfields of study. I can’t possibly be expected to stay on top of ev—” She cut herself off. She folded her arms. “Oh. You’re not really being serious.”

“Snape taught me, too. And when I wasn’t at school, my mother did.”

“Rather different lessons, it seems.”

“Different roles to play. What did Potter need Occlumency for?”

“Voldemort was attacking him mentally, trying to steal secrets.”

Malfoy nodded. “All Potter needed to do was shut him out.”

“Hardly ‘all,’ it was difficult enough.”

“That’s because Potter doesn’t give enough of a shit to make an effort for something that doesn’t immediately reward him.”

“Right, the whole war we won was all because Harry didn’t care enough, was it? He  _ died, _ he went into the forest alone and came out of it dead because he couldn’t be bothered to make an effort.” Hermione’s voice shook. It was still hard to think about Harry limp in Hagrid’s arms.

Malfoy didn’t seem moved. “He would have died if he’d had to do what I had to do. If his family had been alive, they would have died, too. And none of them would have gotten to come back from the dead and live as heroes, either.”

“You don’t know what he would have done. You had any opportunity over the years to be the bigger person, and you never once passed over a chance to make someone else feel small. If you can’t even see the sheer, stupid pointlessness of it from a prison cell, then this is all a waste of time.” Hermione was tempted to storm off, but the notebook on the cot with the drawings and lines of his precise handwriting made her fingers twitch. “And it hasn’t been, which is proof that you can stop being a complete pile of Murtlap dung if you want to.”

“Charming,” Malfoy said. Then, more thoughtfully, “Did you mean it, when you said you would have spoken on my behalf? You told me before that you thought I didn’t have a choice.”

“You seemed to indicate that you didn’t want to defy them, after all.”

“Say I did,” Malfoy said. “What would that be worth, after the fact? Everything happened the way it happened.”

Hermione tilted her head. “What would you be doing, if you weren’t in here?”

This time, Malfoy was quiet for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question.”

Malfoy fidgeted. His face reddened, as if she had already said something derisive. “I was going to be a Healer, all right? Satisfied? I was going to see if anyone would let me near a cauldron for a Potions study.”

“Why didn’t you mention that, in your trial? Surely that would have counted in your favor.”

“Oh, of course.” Malfoy sneered. “I could have clasped my hands over my heart and said I wanted to save a life for every one I saw snuffed out in front of me, and everyone would have shed a single tear, and it wouldn’t have sounded like Slytherin manipulation at all. It wasn’t going to be good enough, and I didn’t care to stand there and be mocked for wanting it.”

“I just don’t see what good it does for the Wizengamot to throw away your entire potential. If you were hell-bent on going out on a murderous rampage the moment the Ministry turned their back, okay, fine, you need to be locked up. But that wasn’t even you while the war was on. I wanted to see what would happen if you were out from under your family’s grip and could decide for yourself.”

Malfoy lifted his chin. “I have an appeal pending. Are you saying you’ll testify in my favor if it’s approved?”

Hermione raised her chin as well, mirroring the challenge she saw in his stance. “Tell me the date, and I’ll make sure my schedule is clear.”

A silent moment passed between them. Malfoy dropped back first. He exhaled hard and launched in like he was giving an answer in class.

“When I learned Occlumency, it was because I had to be ready to face him,” Malfoy said. “I had to be ready to let him inside my mind, anytime he wanted, and he could never find anything amiss. No room for doubt, certainly not a change of heart. Do you think if I did something as crude as slamming a door in his face that he’d let my family live?”

Hermione hadn’t considered it, in fact. “So what do you do instead?” she asked, and launched in before Malfoy could respond, musing to herself as her mind whirred with possibility. “You can’t just attack and defend, you’re right. He’d overpower you. If you’re living in close quarters with a lethal enemy—a predator—you need other skills to survive. You need camouflage, not combat.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow briefly. “You haven’t changed much either, you know. You still catch on insufferably quickly.” He looked down, touching his fingertips together one by one. “Appearances are everything. Proper bearing, the right word at the right time to the right sort of person. Where you end up in life depends on how you present yourself to the right people. Occlumency is like that, but in your head. You create an image of yourself as the other person expects you to be.”

“I don’t understand how that connects to what you did. You didn’t show me any image, but you cast the Occlumency out past yourself.”

“It’s helpful to project a certain amount of emotional frequency at any given time. It registers the same for a Legilimens as enthusiasm, at least on a light touch. Makes them less likely to go in for a full probe. If you’re very good, you can use Occlumency to calm others around you so they don’t lose control and spoil it for all of you, too. My mother taught me that.”

“She covered for you?” Hermione said. It made sense. Narcissa Malfoy’s devotion to her son had been clear.

“For my father, toward the end.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “The point is, it’s about controlling what you project. Like this.”

He moved his hand toward Hermione in a quick, flicking motion, like he was snapping a scarf in her direction.

The same sense of calm alertness as before fell over her. There was a sharpness, a mental attention to detail that Hermione recognized this time as belonging more to the way Malfoy saw the world. When she looked at him, her eye drew more easily to the elegant shape of his hands, the regal line of his spine and neck. Dignity mattered, even in prison. Even more so, because it was something to hold onto when happiness died away.

“What do you think?” Malfoy said.

Hermione frowned in concentration. The sensation of sharing some of his perception felt odd. It made her think, with a little pang in her chest, of the dentist, of running a half-numbed tongue along the line of her teeth, relearning the shape of what had been too familiar to register. Looking at Malfoy made her feel steadiest. 

“I thought you were vain and pompous at Hogwarts. I’m not saying you weren’t, either, but that wasn’t all of it. You’re proud of your family and they’re proud of you, and you won’t let them down,” she said. “I can see it more easily, like this. You do all these subtle little things all the time to look composed. You’re reminding anyone who sees you of where you come from and who you belong to.” It took the same work as preparing a perfectly crafted potion, and it would feel strange not to acknowledge the effect. “You look handsome.”

A hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Now you try.”

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure why she did it. She had the sense that whatever he normally thought of her, in the shared space right now, Malfoy was listening, and the thought that flickered through her mind was of her parents.

She caught the thought as it rushed into view, trimming and shaping it as best as she could. That wasn’t hard. She didn’t want to look at it too closely, herself. Hermione had plenty of practice simplifying the story of what happened to her parents in the war, and that was the series of images that made it through. A wand, glowing with the silvery light of a memory charm. Her parents’ faces, pleasant and bland, murmuring to each other about taking a long holiday. The house with its empty windows. A happier, determined thought tied to the plane ticket in her hand after the war, bound for Australia.

“Good,” Malfoy said. “For a first try, that holds together nicely. Now show it to me again. Show it a different way, so you practice controlling the change.”

Hermione looked at his face. He wasn’t even looking at her. His gaze was focused inward, too, concentrating and listening. Not preparing some cutting word to fire back at her.

Hermione took a shaky breath and took her mind back again. What would she show her parents, if she could let them see into her perspective of what happened? The knot in her throat. The wobble in her voice that threatened to invalidate the spell. The feeling of seeing her five-year-old self and the birthday cake fade out of the photograph, leaving only the couple smiling over tea at the table. The weight of that grief, the panicky feeling of  _ stop, go back,  _ it was just like the feeling she’d had flying back from Australia, the two seats in her row empty even though she’d bought the tickets…

“Granger,” came Malfoy’s voice, far away, underwater. “Granger, slow down, shh, hey—”

But she was in too deep, and it was all becoming so much clearer. Of  _ course  _ this was how it worked, you took the pieces of yourself and you could slice them, you could isolate every part no matter how complicated and delicate and make it into something that told the story that someone needed to hear. That you needed to hear. There was a way to tell the story that would make what she did make sense, there was a way to tell the story that would make her parents come home, but there was suffocating cold in the walls of the prison, and the slice Hermione cut with the knife in her mind started with the backs of her parents’ heads as she crept up behind them. She had to face the truth, right, if she ever wanted to get past reliving this moment over and over? And the truth was she was the worst kind of evil. They jolted when the spell hit them because they never asked her to do this, never wanted it, and a piece of them was fighting the loss even as “daughter” became a hazy regret instead of a living, cherished girl. She destroyed her own family and she deserved all the pain that happened because of what she did.

Hermione shuddered, the room shuddered, and it wasn’t her parents’ living room. It was  _ the  _ room. The drawing room. Before she could scream, a boy’s terrified hitch of breath made her turn. This wasn’t her memory, wasn’t her on the floor, although instinct told her it was the same day. Draco Malfoy was standing just outside the room, hands spread wide to grab the dark wood railing. His head bowed. He wasn’t looking at the floor. He wasn’t looking at anything at all. He was small, was nothing, because the alternative was being in the room that was blood and death and the rasp of the snake gliding over wood. 

Hermione’s eyes flew open. She was breathing shallow, fast breaths. “What happened?”

Malfoy looked more pale than usual. “You go in hard,” he said weakly. “You were spiraling. I’ve got enough troubles of my own without snooping where I’m not wanted. I gave you something to brake against, in case you were showing too much.”

“Thanks,” Hermione mumbled.

Malfoy sat down on his cot. Hermione walked a small circle around herself, shaking out her hands. The feeling of his mind was gone. There was something almost polite, actually, about the way he put his feet up on the mattress and opened the front cover of one of the books, like the copyright page was much more attention-catching than the fact that Hermione was doing her best not to have a meltdown. When she stopped in front of the cell door again, he swung his feet back down toward her.

“Have you spoken to them, since that day with the empty seats?”

“My parents? Yes. We call every week. We’re seeing a therapist. Like a Healer. They haven’t decided whether to come home. They haven’t stopped answering my calls, which is better than nothing.”

Malfoy scratched his wrist, that thin frown line between his brows again. “They were still all projections. You do know that, right? That last version was still you Occluding.”

“Was that real, what you showed me?” Hermione didn’t really need to ask. “It felt real. When was it from?”

“After she hurt you. After you and Potter and Weasley got away, he was furious. He...he killed anyone expendable.”

Another impression of thought shimmered in Hermione’s mind—a faint image of Malfoy and his father, dragging heavy bodies away, not looking at or speaking to each other.

“It’s a good thing you got away.” Malfoy glanced at her before returning his gaze to a stone in the floor between them. “I wish I had.”

Hermione had a quiet ferry ride home, and by that evening she felt lighter. In bed, she scooted her cheek to the edge of the pillow.

“I was thinking about my parents today,” she said.

Ron grunted. One eyelid cracked open. “Don’t worry, they’ll come around.”

“I’ve been feeling like I was a monster. I brutalized them, I stripped something so important away from them, and I thought I had to face the truth that what I did was unforgivable,” Hermione said. Still a projection, still Occluding, she thought. A cross-section with truth in it, but not the full truth of an unfiltered memory. She could recognize a difference now between the nightmare swell of guilt and the clarity of what she had seen-felt in Malfoy’s memory. If there was a fragile chance that  _ unforgivable  _ wasn’t the real truth about her— 

“Course you’re not,” Ron said, throwing a heavy arm around her. “Relax. The Healers will help them see sense. There’s nothing we can fix now, anyway. Leave it for tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not a ton in canon to illustrate how Occlumency is practiced. Snape uses a wand to cast Legilimency on Harry in their practice sessions. Harry has a wand, although it isn't super clear to me what he's doing with it. Snape's instructions mostly focus on developing mental control. Wands channel magic, so it's possible that Harry needed his, at least at the time.
> 
> Draco, on the other hand, is much more practiced, and considerably more talented at Occlumency, by virtue of his natural inclination for compartmentalization and attention to detail. I think Occlumency in any situation other than brute, defensive magic would have to be wandless. You can hardly be an effective spy if you're actively working your wand on a near-constant basis. As Draco explains, it also seems to defeat the point to present your mind as blank, or locked, as if Voldemort is going to go, "Oh well, nothing to see here." Strong wandless practice, and the ability to project a convincing shield of "approved" mental activity, seems like the likeliest version of advanced Occlumency to me.
> 
> I'll unpack this in a little more detail in the story itself later, but just to head off concerns: No, you wouldn't be able to do mind control or non-consensual hypnotism with Occlumency as I describe it here.


	7. Shared Space

It was getting easier to hold composure when the Dementor came to Draco’s cell. Naming it had been a good idea. Draco had a better hold over the Occlumency when he could remind himself it was only Cinnamon, who would stretch a long-fingered hand (did they wear gloves in the kitchens? Draco hoped so, there was a nasty-looking sore on the side of Cinnamon’s finger that really ought to get looked at) to the notebook lying on Draco’s cot. He sketched for it. He tried to explain what made food taste good or get Cinnamon to accept a new request (anything fresh,  _ please).  _ Mostly he got blank stares in return. 

So he’d brace himself, crack the Occlumency open a sliver, and trickle out memories. French toast with powdered sugar at Christmas. Golden-skinned chicken and buttery mash on the first Great Hall dinner of a new term. Red currants stolen from trellises at Nott Manor, eaten with Theo in the Owlery, juice staining his fingertips. Then the Dementor would get all animated and hustle back toward the kitchens. Some of the meals Draco imagined for Cinnamon were starting to come back represented somewhat faithfully on the plate, which was as unnerving mentally as it was satisfying physically.

Draco could rest a little, after that. He still hadn’t touched the books Granger brought. Keeping track of the days until Appeal Day, planning cooking lessons, and maintaining the mental shields were draining enough. Still, he was holding up well, he thought. All things considered.

Or at least, Draco could trick himself into thinking so until the next time Granger came by. Even the sound of her footsteps in the hall made him want to squeeze his head between the too-narrow gaps between the bars, just to get a few extra seconds to see her.

She came to Azkaban often now. More than once a week. She peppered him with questions about each meal and interaction with the Dementor. When she was done, though, she didn’t leave right away. That was the part Draco liked. The Occlumency lessons. Granger was learning fast (not surprising), and what he hadn’t expected was how much he’d notice the feeling of sharing the mental load with someone else. Her calm and focus was strong enough that he could ease off his own barriers sometimes, let hers wrap around the both of them. Her visits were his main chance to catch a breather from the mental chokehold he had to maintain for most of his waking hours.

“Can Cinnamon see my dreams?” Draco asked her one day, the words slipping out before he had a chance to weigh them.

“That’s an excellent question,” Granger said. “Dreams are such a different pattern of thought and emotion. Would a Dementor be able to process that material for fuel, or is subconscious cognition indigestible to them?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. You’d like me to start keeping a dream journal like a fluff-brained teenager and report at our next visit.”

Instead, she said, “Or you could show me.” When he looked at her, startled, Granger continued, “Dreams are fragmentary and difficult to remember with accuracy, never mind describe well enough to be usable. We’ve laid a workable foundation for sharing memory projections. That way I can feel impressions of your emotions myself, instead of leaving you to grasp for the right words.”

“How would you even judge what you saw? Are you imagining taking your findings to the Ministry?”

“No, there’s no need for that. It would just be between us,” Granger said. She put her pen down. “I have nightmares, too. If you want to know if Cinnamon is accessing that dimension of thought, I think I could help distinguish between war dreams or something Dementor-augmented.” She gave him a bitter, one-sided smile. “I’ll show you mine if you want, to keep it even.”

“We don’t need a wand-measuring contest over who’s got it worse,” Draco muttered. “For once, I think I’ve clearly beaten you.”

But he unlocked the door to where the dreams he could remember lived and let them seep into the space between them. And they talked it over for a while. She did end up showing him one or two of hers, too. It was helpful. He could feel, once she pointed it out, where the textures of the emotion matched. It was more convincing this way for him to believe that Cinnamon most likely wasn’t sucking away his ability to escape into happier dreams. Draco would be having the same bloody nightmares no matter where he was, which was not a happy thought, but at least he knew Granger was going through it, too.

The better Granger got at holding her end of a shared Occlumency space, the more Draco relaxed his side so he could shake himself out a little. Maybe a few more feelings slipped into their shared space, but that was okay. Better her than the Dementor. Granger politely ignored the occasional stray flash of private thought. They talked about little things. Old Hogwarts stories, or even earlier, scrapes they’d gotten into when they were kids. It made it easier to hold it on his own for a day or so after she was gone, too. He’d barely notice it getting harder and his mind growing bleaker until the next time he heard footsteps and had to make himself do a shivery spasm of a laugh instead of crying.

One day, Granger stopped by his cell visibly rattled.

“Cinnamon wouldn’t let me get through to the cell block right away,” she said.

Draco stepped closer to the bars. “Was it threatening you?”

Granger shook her head, messy curls swinging. “It wanted a cooking lesson.”

“That’s new.”

“You’re getting ambitious with what you ask for, I think,” she said, smiling. “There were a few sheets of notebook paper lying around, with your handwriting. You’re writing recipes now, and you want homemade jam? Good luck with that.”

“I didn’t actually expect it to make the jam,” Draco said peevishly. “I showed Cinnamon a memory to get it to pay attention. I thought I’d have a go at explaining pancakes. The ingredient list is basic enough, and there’s some simple technique Cinnamon would have to learn to be successful.”

“Yes, the flip’s giving it trouble. I assisted as best as I could. We sort of got it toward the end. If I were you, I’d expect a stack of half-burnt crepes, with maybe a few rubbery ones thrown in and possibly a half-decent one if I didn’t offend Cinnamon by taking hold of the pan myself.”

“My stomach’s growling already,” Draco said.

“Speaking of, I have something for you. I thought at first that Cinnamon caught me sneaking contraband in,” Granger admitted.

“What?”

“Don’t get excited,” Granger said. She glanced down the hall, then pulled a brown paper bag out of her pocket. “It’s not much. I thought you might like a small deviation from the usual menu. What harm can it do?”

She held the bag to the gap between bars. Even as Draco pulled it through, he could feel a soft something inside crush against the iron. A damp splotch marked the paper.

Draco unwrapped a peach, skin just broken and leaking sun-colored juices. He bit and let the sweetness plume through his nose and mouth.

When the next meal rolled around, a single golden-brown, lacy crepe draped over a pile of others of varying degrees of disgusting. Draco put the tip of his pen on the page and wrote, “Good crepe on top. Clearly passing superior cook’s work off as its own. Devious bastard.”

*

“I said, it must be nice getting a night away from Azkaban,” Ron said.

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “I’m paying attention. This is nice, we don’t get out often enough.”

“And you say I don’t listen,” Ron said. Teasing. Hermione felt fairly sure.

They were trying a new restaurant in, of all places, Knockturn Alley. Folks in the area were eager for a fresh image, post-war. It had taken a few years for people to consider venturing out this way, but some unspoken milestone had elapsed, and new eateries and shops were cropping up everywhere. The business owners clearly hoped this would be the new, fun place for nightlife. Diagon Alley would be the traditional, academic, family-friendly pillar it had always been, and perhaps now Knockturn would still be edgier and more experimental, but less, well, dark. Hermione had heard good things about this place, an Asian fusion restaurant specializing in elevating street food favorites. She’d ordered mini scallion pancakes with a trio of dipping sauces as an appetizer, and she had apparently gotten lost in thought.

“It really hasn’t been that bad,” she said. “The Azkaban trips, I mean. I’m learning so much. It’s a privileged position to explore the inner workings of the prison so closely. I’m keeping as thorough notes as I can. There’s precious little in the way of scientific documentation of daily activities in a Dementor colony. They have to perform sophisticated tasks to meet the needs of a human population so well. I’m curious about how they acquire knowledge—how much of it is instinctive or ancestral, like a hive mind, versus how much they think and learn on an individual basis.”

“How do you keep from going barmy? I don’t think they’re making Chocolate Frogs fast enough to keep up with how often you have to go in there.”

“I don’t have to go,” Hermione said. She touched the rim of her water glass. “I don’t know. It’s interesting. I want to.”

“And your boss is okay with it?”

“I do some legislation proofreading on the ferry ride. I’m on top of my workload. At the Assistant level, you’re afforded quite a generous amount of time to put toward discretionary projects, so people can conduct the necessary research to propose new legislation or work toward special certification.”

“Are you after a specialty, then?” Ron said. “Harry’s been down for a few meetings at the Department of Mysteries. He said Theo Nott’s doing a specialty in non-beings. Are you thinking you want to get Dementor-certified, or something?”

“Maybe? I wouldn’t have thought I’d want to be anywhere near a Dementor after third year, never mind the rest of the war. But Cinnamon really is such a fascinating case.” Hermione caught herself, too late.

“Cinnamon?” Ron’s blue eyes mostly looked confused, but he tipped his head toward her, waiting for her to explain the joke.

“The Dementor Malfoy and I have been observing. He named it.”

Ron laughed, louder than Hermione wished he would in a fancy establishment. “Merlin’s beard, how the mighty have fallen. Wish I could go back in time and tell that cocky git he’s going to end up going barking mad in Azkaban. You don’t still have that Time-Turner, do you?” He wiped the corner of his eye. “As if dealing with Dementors wasn’t bad enough, right? At least you get the satisfaction of knowing you’re both on the right side of the bars.”

“It’s not like that,” Hermione said. “It’s impressive, honestly. You’re right to think he would be addled, spending all that time locked up alone with Dementors around at all hours. The fact that he hasn’t fallen into the kind of state the other prisoners have, that he’s keeping notes for me. That he has the reserves of humor to face a creature that awful and name it. Malfoy’s made of stronger stuff than we gave him credit for.”

“Like when he nearly killed all of us in Fiendfyre because he couldn’t rescue his own sorry arse, you mean? Or earlier, when he stuck his thumbs in his pockets at Malfoy Manor while we fought for our lives? Or maybe you’re thinking of right at the end, when he—oh, wait, he sided with the Death Eaters and ended up in a ragtag bunch with his parents, waiting to be arrested after the battle. Tough stuff.”

“You need to keep in mind, he was in a position of high visibility and no power. It’s not like anyone in the Order of the Phoenix would have taken him in if he’d defected, and there was high risk that his family would be slaughtered if he made that kind of move. He was effectively a prisoner in his own home,” Hermione said. 

Malfoy had shown her more of that memory, the one in the drawing room later. As her visits had continued, she’d wondered why he was so cooperative. She tasted food off his plate multiple times, which seemed out of keeping with the whole Mudblood ideology. They’d spent more time practicing Occlumency projections, until sometimes Hermione felt almost as though she could feel the places where his shoulders ached in her body. She’d asked him,  _ Isn’t this too close for comfort with a Mudblood, by the way, _ and he’d opened the memory. The full force of it made her gasp for breath. 

It had taken so long to drag the bodies out of the room. Malfoy and his father had done it all by hand. Malfoy’s wand was gone, and so was his father’s. Voldemort was in a murderous rage. If he knew Harry stole a wand, he might kill Draco, so his father made up some lie that the traitors no longer deserved to have magic performed on them, even on their corpses, to appease the Dark Lord. Pureblood and Half-blood and even goblin. They were all so heavy. It never got easier. He never felt any of them less, couldn't look at the pain etched in any of their faces without feeling as sick.

And all the meanwhile, piercing even through the terror, Hermione could feel the memory of Malfoy's thoughts of her, too. The waves of relief that he was not holding her, learning her weight in a slow procession to a mass grave.

“He’s a prisoner in Azkaban now, and that’s good enough for me,” Ron said. “How many field hours do you need to do before they’ll give you the certificate?”

“I don’t know. I said I wasn’t sure if I want to make it an official specialty. I’m interested in a particular Dementor.” And a particular prisoner, she didn’t say. Because she wasn’t. Not as such. Although she wondered, sometimes, if the appeal really would go through and Malfoy made it out after all. She’d checked his file, and Appeal Day was the next morning. Would he let her in like this, if she wasn’t the only person he saw? “I’m interested in Occlumency, too.”

“That’s the defense stuff Snape was teaching Harry, right?”

“It’s a lot more nuanced than defense. It’s an entire mental and magical practice. How do you not even know what the field is?” Hermione said. “You grew up in this world.”

“Do you know every field in Muggle study?” Ron fired back. “Do you know the name for it if someone wants to study maps?”

“Cartography.”

“Fish?”

“Ichthyology. Or maybe marine biology, if you wanted a broader approach.”

Ron shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re taking up any of those next, Hermione, I’m begging you. When are you going to figure out what you want so we can settle down?”

“Who said anything about settling down?” Hermione said.

Ron grinned. “Hermione, Mum has been pretty reasonable about us living in sin this long. Especially since we’re still waiting on yours to get through treatment. I know Muggles marry late, but by our standards, we’re already dragging our feet.”

“Ron, I’m only 21.” Hermione’s fingertips brushed against the rich material of the tablecloth, and a wave of nausea roiled in her stomach. “You weren’t going to propose tonight, were you?”

“No,” he said. “I think I know you at least a little better than that. I think you know me, too, after ten years. You can’t act like you’re surprised if I mention where we’re headed. I’ll keep taking you out and waiting until you can make it five minutes without dragging the whole conversation around work.”

“What if I never do?” Hermione said. “Even the assistantship means a lot of spellwork to review in the evenings, especially when there’s an election soon. The higher I go, the more that’s going to be a part of every aspect of my life. Of our life. I can hardly expect to run for Minister of Magic with a partner who’s not willing to campaign and fundraise and be there for speeches.”

_ “If _ you run for Minister of Magic,” Ron said. “Which is a big if, and it’s a long way down the road.”

“I want to make a run before I’m 30.”

“Well, don’t expect me to drop my whole career, either. We’d have to talk about it, when and if it happens. I’ve been a sidekick long enough. I’ve got more potential than standing on the sidelines, shaking hands to get people to vote for you. Besides, who even knows if you’ll have the time, or even want to run. My mum had six of us by the time she was 30.”

“I am not your bloody mother, Ronald,” Hermione said, aghast, and by that point it hardly mattered how delicately prepared the sesame scallops and chicken with basil could be.

They got home and had the kind of fight where every sentence felt like it could be the one either to clear the other person’s eyes and make everything new, or turn bitter and add another 20 minutes of misunderstandings and blame. Hermione collapsed into bed close to two in the morning, ruefully turned off the early-bird Alarm Charm, leaving only the regular alarm in place and guessing she might even need an extra five minutes on top of that.

The next morning, she made it into work seven full minutes late in a bleary daze, only to find the offices in a wild commotion. After a few futile grabs at the interns racing back and forth with drafts of press releases, she hit one with a covert Lock-Knee Charm and got him to stammer out what was wrong.

In the night, a prisoner had died in Azkaban, the victim of a non-sanctioned, rogue Dementor’s Kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the skip last week. I was basically glued to election results and biting my nails the whole week. I am so deeply relieved the country has elected Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, and I look forward to being able to concentrate on other parts of my life again -- including easing my way back into writing. 
> 
> I am also pleased to announce that this fic received 80 kudos in the first month of posting! I promised a minimum $100 donation to the National Center for Transgender Equality, so I decided a total of $180 felt like the best reflection of my intentions and reader response. I have made the donation -- I have a screenshot receipt, but I am Bad at Technology and don't know how to put a screenshot into an a/n.
> 
> I do kind of like offering a reader question, so for this week, it is: What food memory would you offer Cinnamon, if you were lonely in Azkaban?


	8. Hut-On-the-Rock

Theo was looking at Harry Potter’s butt. Hard not to, really. Potter had strutted into Theo’s office, no appointment (Chosen Ones didn’t  _ need _ to make appointments), dumped a pile of paperwork on Theo’s desk, frowned at the chair where Theo maintained a meaningfully chaotic collection of memos, files, books, and constituent submissions, some of which were probably forming a lush compost on the bottom layer, and perched himself on Theo’s desk instead.

“I’ve been looking through records in the Department of Management of Creatures and Beasts,” he said. “I haven’t read this much since I had Hermione breathing down my neck at Hogwarts.”

“Turn up anything good?”

Potter made a face. “They lock up the animal care jurisdiction good and tight. You can’t just assign a Ministry beast to someone else’s care. You need a background check, six months of training, and three months of supervised field practice if you so much as want to give a Thestral a sausage. You’d think, after all that, they’d want to make sure the animals were well cared for, not slaughtered because they had the wrong baby.”

“I’ve heard there’s an application form for the Hogwarts Thestral Transfer Program lying around somewhere. Recommendations from esteemed alumni are supposed to help,” Theo said, spinning his chair in an indifferent circle.

“That has to get stamped through by the same people you said want to get a look at her organs, so I don’t think it’ll work.”

Theo stuck out his foot to catch the chair. “I see. She’s had a good run of it, then?” His voice felt tight in his chest. “They’ll let her care for the foals for a while longer, at least.”

“I want to show you something, actually,” Potter said.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me back for a surprise Apparation, Potter? You’ll have to catch me first.” 

“You’ll have to catch me,” Potter said. “Brooms are outside. It’s a nice day, and it’s not too far. If you’re a good flyer, that is.”

“You’re on,” said Theo.

Ten minutes later, he was in the air, wind fluttering his jumper. Potter, true to his word, set a smart pace. Theo again had plenty of opportunity to consider the angles of Potter’s back, and the muscles of his ass and thighs as he used his body to arc the broomstick one direction or another.

Theo took a fairly haphazard approach to sex, much as he did with most other things he could get away with. Breasts and smooth chests and dicks and clits had their own appeal; it was more important to feel wanted than concoct some ranking system of body parts. If he did have a type, though, there was something about the economy of lean muscle and jutting shoulder blades, the fast-twitch spring of nerves and the dark line down from the navel that hit a low, aching pulse point for him. He thought he recognized a kind of wary, hungry questioning in Potter that was less  _ Do you like what I like _ and maybe a broader  _ Do you know what it means to need the things I need. _

They landed on an island that was basically five or six good-size chunks of rock welded together in the middle of the sea, with a thorny, scrabbling mess of roots and serrated leaves growing in the cracks and a gray shack that seemed to exist to spite gravity.

“This,” Potter said, “is the Hut-on-the-Rock.”

“Evocative name,” Theo said. “Wonder how they came up with it.”

Potter touched the weathered doorjamb, his thumb stroking the grain of the wood affectionately. “It’s a grim little dump, isn’t it?” he said, his mouth curling around a strange smile. Theo couldn’t tell if the private glint in Potter’s eye was bitterness or vindication. “It’s sort of a special place for me. Come on. The roof’s held up this long. It won’t cave in on us yet.”

The inside of the hut was divided into two rooms of roughly the same size, a living space with a rusty stove crouched like a gnome in the corner, and a room with a rickety-looking bed featuring a mattress of unknown pedigree and blanket of indeterminate color. A narrow door opened to a semi-sheltered privy.

“It’s charming,” said Theo. “Are you going to tell me it’s nicer at some other part of the year? Because it’s a clear September day, and I think I’d slit my wrists if I had to spend more than 30 minutes here.”

“My uncle and aunt took me here the summer I turned eleven. The night I turned eleven, in fact,” Potter said. “They thought they could hide out here until the Hogwarts letters stopped coming. They thought Dumbledore and McGonagall would give up eventually. It was pouring down rain. My aunt and uncle and my cousin Dudley all squished up in the bed. They said there wasn’t any room for me. They said a night on the ground wouldn’t hurt a growing boy.”

Theo whistled. “Not much for the happy family picture, were they?”

“No, they were. I just wasn’t part of it.”

Theo rolled his shoulder. “Family’s overrated. My dad wasn’t big on family dinners. I can think of a thing or two that doesn’t hurt a growing lad, either. Lots of time alone?”

“Yep. Scrub floors on your hands and knees?”

“Or something like it. Builds character, I’m told. Still waiting for any of my virtues to develop, but surely any day now. You get a belting if you stayed out playing too late?”

“Sometimes. More often skipping a meal for impertinence. I was a real mouthy kid, apparently. Not that I said much,” Potter said. “I got thrashed once for eating scraps off Dudley’s plate before I finished washing up. I guess I was supposed to pick soapy bacon out of the sink? I don’t think they thought that part through.” He cut his eyes at Nott, and Theo recognized the way Potter weighed the odds of saying the next thing. “I did it the next time, though.”

“Merlin,” Theo said under his breath. He looked around, as if he was going to see something new and comment-worthy in the bare room. “So what happened on the family vacation?”

“I stayed up for midnight. My birthday, you know. I probably meant to do some stupid kid thing like sing myself the song.”

“Make a wish,” Theo said sardonically, nudging Potter’s arm a little so he’d know he shouldn’t be embarrassed. Theo got it. You thought stupid things when you were a kid and still believed you’d wake up one morning and it would all be better.

“But then you know what happens? Hagrid shows up, right here, in this hut, in the middle of the night,” Harry said. “He brought a cake, even. It was a little banged up, but that didn’t matter. He told my uncle off, and then he looks at me and says, ‘Yer a wizard, Harry.’ And that was the start of everything. My uncle and aunt didn’t even know how much closer they’d brought me to Hogwarts, when they were trying to get as far away from it as they could.”

“Wow,” Theo said. His mouth was dry. “Wow, Potter, that’s...that’s really great.” Of course Potter’s version of childhood had actually ended with someone coming and breaking him out. He was Harry Potter. However it had felt at the time, people like Dumbledore must have been looking out for him from a distance. They would have stepped in, if things really got bad. Theo shouldn’t even feel bad right now. He should be used to feeling like this. Merlin knew he’d commiserated with Malfoy often enough about dads who were hard on you, who never seemed to notice anything good about the sons they’d made, and then the next week Draco would be parading around whatever toy his dad bought him, and Theo would cringe remembering what he’d told Draco, hoping he’d forgotten.

“Don’t you get it?” Potter said. 

It was hard for Theo to shake away the obvious answer, which was  _ I showed you mine so you showed me yours, the thing that’s hard for you to look at but you do it anyway, and you thought they were the same and they’re not.  _ So he said, “Tell me” in a skeptical drawl.

“I thought I should call Hagrid to help,” Potter said. “He’s one of the best animal keepers I know. He’s got no problem stepping outside the legal channels when needed, and he’d do it if I asked him. But then I thought, no way. It wouldn’t work at all. It’s got to be you.”

“Me?”

Potter’s lips spread in a slow smile. Potter stepped close enough to put a hand on him, the flat of his palm first, then the fingers curling loose on Theo’s neck, and only then the thumb sliding into place at the dip of his collarbone, so deliberate that Theo’s skin pebbled under it.

“Yer a wizard, Theo,” Potter whispered, his eyes brilliant green even in the dim light of the hut. “I’ll give you a safe place, and you’re gonna get that mare out.”

And it struck Theo that Potter maybe did get it, that he didn’t bring him out here to rub it in Theo’s face that some lucky bastards get whisked away but because he was saying  _ whatever you are, I’m that too _ and Theo couldn’t resist from surging forward any more than a wave could keep from breaking on a rock.

There was only one source of warmth on a cold rock in the middle of a cold sea, and Theo knew how to find it. He knew how to bite down on warmth where he could get at it, and Potter had enough practice taking harshness and grabbing at what he needed that he leaned right back into Theo, growled a warning when Theo broke the skin, then kissed back deep.

They wrestled each other to the ground. They alternated between rough tugs and tender hands and mouths, the sly surprise of what didn’t hurt. There was Potter’s hips pushing hard against Theo’s, rubbing the fabric of Theo’s own trousers too hard against sensitive skin, and the ungainly kicking off whatever was caught around ankles, and the slippery glide of a mouth. They didn’t go to the bed. The floor was good enough for who they were. There was Theo’s turn, on his back, the back of his head scraping against the wood floor when he arched his neck. There was seeing the rest of the dark line he’d glimpsed once when Potter stretched his arms overhead. There was the taste of salt in Theo's mouth, and the realization that he was getting hard again. There was being bare enough and close enough to sniff out all the sharpness of broom-sweat and sex-sweat, and feeling his entire experience of the universe winding into one hot core of nerve endings and friction.

Late in the afternoon, they were still there, watching shadows get long and strange like invisible creatures, breathing in air heavy with musk and salt, the smells of animals finding shelter.


	9. Doors

Even pulling longer hours than even a worker like Hermione usually kept, it was difficult to stay on top of the Azkaban situation. The frenzy of activity she’d first walked into branched into a delta of departments, each page and aide and lower-level legislator tasked with their own internal record-keeping requirements and response protocol. The public was briefed of an extra-judiciary loss of life, the Ministry recommitted its principles and resources to the promotion of dignity and justice befitting the Wizarding World, and most departments held mandatory retraining events for proper spellcasting and documentation to avoid such a mistake happening again. What more, the unspoken question begged, would you have us do?

Hermione still didn’t feel at ease. They hadn’t even publicly released the name of the prisoner who died. She found it—one Osvaldo Jugson—but it bothered her that most of her Ministry colleagues found it easy to call him “the inmate” or sometimes “that poor bugger.”

What bothered her more, once she finally got through the new Azkaban clearance procedures nearly two weeks later, was the change she noticed in the prisoners’ quarters. The cell doors had changed. Before, the doors were set with narrowly spaced metal bars (presumably something like steel, rather than iron, given the lack of rust—magic could prevent oxidation as well, but it was simpler to work with a material that wouldn’t fight with the elements). Now, it was more like a wall of metal, with only thin horizontal slats making it possible to see in. The gap at the bottom for a food tray was now the largest opening. Hermione peered into a few cells on her way down the East Wing. The forms she saw slumped in the shadowy depths of their cell barely looked different from the first time she’d seen them. Maybe some of them were too far gone to notice much had changed in the miserable square that held them. But not all.

“Where the hell have you been?” Malfoy shouted when Hermione said his name. “What’s going on?”

“A prisoner is dead,” Hermione said. “A Dementor went rogue and performed the Kiss without authorization.”

“So now it’s too dangerous for you to come? Is that how it is? I’m valuable when you want to learn Occlumency or get me to do your secretary work when you take it into your bushy head, but as soon as the stakes get real, you’re gone?”

“I’ve made it here as quickly as I could,” Hermione said. She got up close to the sheet of a door, peering through the thin slats, trying to angle her face to catch a glimpse of him. He must have been doing the same, switching around between the tiny openings, because all she saw was gray stone. It was darker in the cell than it had been before.

“Over here,” she said. “Right side, facing the outer wall.”

Gray eyes appeared, angry and shadowed underneath. Worse, his expression looked slightly disoriented. Malfoy’s words bit, but years of practice made a sharp tongue come easily. He shouldn’t have taken this long to follow Hermione’s voice to the side of the door where she stood. His eyes shouldn’t be tracking back and forth over hers, as though he couldn’t quite place who she was.

Hermione said, “They changed the rules for visitor authorization. I swear I’ve done everything I could. I’m here now. It was Jugson who was killed. Are you okay?”

“No one’s told me anything. No one’s coming.”

“Did you hear about your appeal, at least?” Hermione said.

He blinked, slow. “My what?”

“Draco,” Hermione said. “Your  _ appeal.  _ You’ve been counting down since you’ve been in here. It’s been approved. More than a week ago now. The Magical Court of the EU agreed to an appeal hearing for your case. Didn’t they send you a message?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, sounding troubled. “Yes, they must have. I almost forgot. Of course they would have, otherwise—when the door changed, I thought it meant they were putting me in higher security, or getting ready to move me. The letter—it must still be here somewhere, but then no one came.”

“You were looking forward to Appeal Day,” Hermione murmured. “The focus of your Occlumency hung on that. And I was coming every few days and taking part of that effort. Don’t try to say I didn’t hold up my end for you,” she added, meaning for it to be teasing, but the expression in the eyes on the other side of the slat didn’t change.

“I can’t do it,” Malfoy whispered. “It’s dark and there’s no one.” His fingertips scraped through one of the other small gaps. “He’ll kill me.”

“Hey,” Hermione said. “Malfoy. Look at me. Don’t spiral on me.” She looked around. “Come down here. Sit.”

She put her hand through the food tray opening. She wasn’t sure she was good enough to make what they needed, but if today was the test, she’d face it.

It took longer than it felt like it should, as though Malfoy had to travel a long distance instead of simply crouch down and reach out to her. Hermione stretched her fingers into the dark, thinking maybe if she could brush against his ankle she could guide him, and then his hand found hers. 

Warmer than she would have expected, and rougher. Those slim Pureblood fingers had dragged a chip of stone against stone every morning to carve a groove into the wall. Hermione could feel, in the callus along the side of his finger, how many times he must have sat beside the wall, tracing the tally marks and counting, waiting. He’d been chewing his nails. Malfoy interlaced his fingers through hers and gripped hard. Their palms sealed tight together, life lines and heart lines pressing against each other. His fingertips dug into the backs of her knuckles. She folded her thumb overtop of his and stroked it.

Hermione could visualize him much better like this. She was still new to some of the skills of Occlumency, and even a small point of real, physical contact helped. She knew enough by now at least to understand that Occlumency projections weren’t mind control. A good friend could tell you to breathe, calm down, and you’d do it. The same words from someone you didn’t trust wouldn’t have the same effect. A magically enhanced form of shared emotional state worked in a similar way. Hermione couldn’t force Malfoy to accept her help. But the hand squeezing hers told her how badly he needed this lifeline.

She mustered her mental energy, channeled it, and did her best to fling a portion up and over and through the metal between her and Malfoy.

Something lit inside her mind. It wasn’t that she could see him, necessarily. More like a heat map, or the knowledge of someone else’s unseen presence in a dream. Hermione half-heard a whimper of relief, and she was fairly certain it wasn’t a real sound that had come out of Malfoy’s mouth, but a sound her brain supplied to match a shift she’d felt in his muscles.

With the projection cast, Hermione could probe her mind further and fill in the details. If Occlumency, done this way, was a blanket to cast over someone, this was the part where she could check the corners and smooth wrinkles. She ran her awareness along the edge between her mind and Malfoy’s, and it seemed like maybe here was a place where she could tuck them more comfortably together.

“What was that? What did you do?” Malfoy said.

“Nothing,” Hermione said automatically.

“You did something,” he insisted. Then, like an afterthought, “It felt good.”

It felt good to her, too. Her sensation of his body was clearer. She could feel where his feet pressed against the stone, and she unconsciously changed the way she was sitting to mirror his position. They were breathing in synchrony. She couldn’t know it, but she knew it. She pushed her mind out against the outline of him again, and yes, there was a kind of pleasure to it, like a deep stretch. 

“Let me see you,” Hermione coaxed.

Malfoy flexed his fingers in her hand. Hermione thought he might pull away, but he only turned their wrists to a more comfortable angle and curled his fingers back around her hand, fitting his fingertips into the dips between her knuckles instead of clenching against the bone. Hermione closed her eyes. The image came to her more clearly this way. He looked wan and tired. He’d been biting his lip as well as his nails, so the skin was chapped. His back curled into a protective slouch. Hermione could see the jut of his collarbone. He’d been finger-combing his hair to get most of the tangles out. Tousled strands swept to one side. The stubble came in darker than his hair, a shadow on the angle of his jaw, the color of dark honey.

Hermione smiled. “Stop trying to make yourself look good for a minute. I want to see how you really are.”

“I look like a wreck, Granger, be serious,” Malfoy’s surprised voice came through on the other side of the door. He paused. “You think I look good?”

There was no use denying. Hermione had wrapped her mind around him; the emotional timbre of her thought was all through the space between them. “If this is what you look like when you’re in prison, at a moment when things have gotten even worse for you? I can think of a few people who’d be jealous.”

He let out a small noise, surprise and a hint of amusement. Hermione felt a rush of gratitude hearing it. Whatever she had managed to do, it was working, giving him a breather from what must have been twelve days of crushing solitude and helplessness. 

“Don’t tell me you’re one of them,” he said.

“Hardly,” Hermione said. “It’s a shame about the door. I’m actually ravishingly sexy today, it’s a pity you’re missing it.”

Hermione ran through her mental checklist, selected what to Occlude, and set about creating a projection appearance to send Malfoy’s way. Sleek, shiny hair, he’d like that. Makeup, no doubt. A sultry red lip, and maybe that sharp corner thing with eyeliner, whatever it was called. Wearing something low-cut and busty. With heels. The stabby kind, where you could probably barely walk but your calves and rear hiked up into taut perkiness.

This time there was an actual laugh on the other side of the door, even if it was shaky. “What on earth have you done with Hermione Granger?”

Hermione leaned her head against the door, watching in her mind as Malfoy adjusted the image she’d created. Fluffing up the hair came first, naturally. Then Hermione recognized a favorite cable-knit jumper of hers from Hogwarts, oatmeal-colored and roomy. Her first thought was of course Malfoy would cover her up, but she could feel that emotion wasn’t right. Hermione hadn’t ever thought before about how delicate her wrists looked in the loose sleeves or the elegant way the knit flowed from her waist to land right at the fullest part of her bum. She felt very aware that her breasts were still a noticeable curve, although more understated than the straining button-down she’d jokingly invented. That didn’t feel like a Hermione thought. Women didn’t walk around devoting that much surreptitious, longing attention to their own chests.

The makeup was last to go. Instead of a coquettish pout, her face looked serious and intent. There was a keenness in her eyes, and her lips parted as her chin took a decidedly commanding angle— 

“The word is  _ bossy,” _ Malfoy said aloud. “You always look a little bossy.”

“Are you using Legilimency?” Hermione demanded. “Undeclared Legilimency outside of a formal investigative hearing is a felony violation under the Wizarding Freedom of Thought Act of 1919, punishable by—”

“An Azkaban sentence?” Malfoy drawled. “Calm down, Granger. You can hardly call it Legilimency when you drop your thoughts in my lap. And I didn’t see whatever it was you thought, I felt your emotions switch. I’ve seen you in class enough times to know after the prissy frown is the, ‘Actually, I don’t think that’s correct, Professor.’”

“I wouldn’t tell off a professor,” Hermione pouted.

“Lies. You would and did. Incessantly. It was hilarious.” Malfoy’s breath caught. His hand fluttered in Hermione’s. “That’s a good memory.”

Hermione’s chest squeezed. The sheer relief in his voice. The wonder at remembering something good, and not even anything important. Just a moment of laughter. “It’s been a while, has it?”

“Why did they change my door, if they’re not moving me? I wasn’t going anywhere before.”

“As far as I’m aware, the Ministry hasn’t commissioned any updates to Azkaban,” Hermione said. “That’s one thing that’s concerning me. I’ve been reading any official documents pertaining to the prison for the last month, and catching up on backlogs. I haven’t seen any recorded construction orders. I’ve checked the travel schedule regularly, as well, and I’m the only Ministry official on record who’s been here in months. So that means either the cell doors are the Dementors’ doing, or someone in the Ministry doesn’t want anyone to know what they’re doing at Azkaban.”

“Doors,” Malfoy said. “Plural? It’s not just me this time.”

“All of them in this wing have changed,” Hermione said.

“So whatever’s happening now, it affects all of us.” Malfoy was quiet. “I’m the only one you’ve come to see. You haven’t checked to see if any others are all right.”

“Who are you worried about?” Hermione said, before the obvious answer clicked into place. “Your parents! Of course. Should I—shall I check on them for you?”

“You don’t have to do anything for me, Granger.”

“I will, if you want me to.”

“My family tortured you in their house,” Malfoy said, dry and bitter. 

It was true. Hermione did not want to stand in front of Lucius or Narcissa Malfoy. She hadn’t even wanted to see Draco; it was still a surprise to her that they could have so much to say to each other, or that she could ever find herself sitting like this with him. Whatever tone his voice held, his hand was still wrapped around hers, his thumb tracing anxious circles over her skin. 

“Even so,” she said.

Malfoy tugged her hand an inch further under the gap, closer to him. He was still having a hard time maintaining the usual control over his Occlumency, and the whole thing wobbled. Hermione had seen him, in his projection, but now she felt even more like she was inside him, huddling in the darkness with his free hand knuckled against his forehead, a knot threatening to burst out of him.

“I thought I was never going to speak to them again,” he said. “You really would take a message to them?”

“Yes.”

“And if—they probably won’t, you said everyone else in here is too far under the Dementors’ hold to respond. But if one of them managed to say anything. If they mention me?”

“Of course I’ll tell you,” Hermione said.

It took a moment for Malfoy to respond. “Thank you,” he said. “Truly. You don’t know what this means.”

Hermione tipped her head against the door again, at the same spot where she imagined Malfoy’s head would be, on the other side. The metal against her ear reminded her of the way she pressed the cradle of the phone against her face, listening to the sound of a long-distance call, ringing. “I think I do,” she whispered.

*

Cinnamon understood that it had a name. At least, it understood that there was a vocalization humans used to ask for attention. Dementors did not need to refer to an individual often enough to require names. The main time in a Dementor’s life cycle when it needed to communicate closely with another was in the spawning stage, when it absorbed information, before it matured into its task in the colony. Being addressed individually was an expression of care, nearly an endearment, inasmuch as a Dementor could understand anything like affection.

There was much that Cinnamon didn’t understand about what happened when the two people went quiet and the emotions faded into a secret knot between them. The seal wasn’t perfect, though. Cinnamon learned to lie in wait for the pieces that slipped through the cracks. It didn’t bother feeding on the other prisoners at all anymore. Their faded, leeched-out memories and dull despair no longer provided any satisfaction for the Dementor’s hunger. 

When people talked together, or made the quick exhaling vocalizations that Cinnamon now knew meant pleasant emotion, the rippling patterns of feeling were a rich and sumptuous meal. The more the Dementor learned about the subtler interplay of emotions layering on one another, the more it learned how to make its own actions subtler, too. If Cinnamon sipped, rather than sucked, it could go undetected. It could taste fresh  _ desire,  _ instead of mostly  _ loss _ tinged with only a hint of the initial craving.  _ Surprise _ was exquisite. The more the humans slipped, the more they merely opened the mental door to each other instead of constructing a false projection, the less they noticed the outer barrier eroding, too. Cinnamon did not have a name for the feeling that took two people to conjure. The  _ sureness, _ the  _ hope-fear-thrill-warmth _ of making it possible for the other to harm them, and finding they were not harmed. The Dementor only knew that it was catching a taste of something sublime.

Cinnamon was learning more about the ways humans put things into each other, instead of only extracting. That enriched the blend, making it into the complex material Cinnamon increasingly depended on. It had experienced the process personally, when the light-haired prisoner taught it new foods and gave it memories freely, the silky textures of thought unblemished by the wrenching suction other Dementors used. 

Cinnamon could not allow others of its kind to drain the prisoner of the emotions it needed. The Dementor could not subsist on scraps of emotion forever. It would have to keep its prisoner safe, protect it from harm, and then Cinnamon would have to decide when to take the final risk and come forward directly instead of lurking in the shadows, the better to feed deeply from its chosen source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, what day even is it? Writing about Draco in prison, a coping mechanism for dealing with pandemic quarantining, whaaatt? They say write what you know, right?
> 
> I am fortunate and thankful to be in my warm, snug house, with family for company and friends a phone call away, books and tea and outdoor space to play with my kids. I also sometimes reread sections of this story and go, "whew, it is painfully clear why you are spending your free time imagining the emotions of someone in confinement." It feels good to imagine finding, or being, the hand reaching out to help.
> 
> Question of the week: A two-fer that is possibly a Venn diagram with generous overlap: What are you especially grateful for right now, and what are the things you've turned to to find energy/respite/fun in the pandemic?


	10. Tabloids and Firewhiskey

The second rogue Dementor’s Kiss came on the heels of an even splashier news story.

“Sacred 28 Heiress Indicted for Fraud, Embezzlement, Abuse of Power,” read the  _ Daily Prophet _ headline, which was salacious enough.  _ Presto!  _ took an even more direct approach.

“POISON PANSY ARRESTED,” the front cover of the tabloid rag shrieked. “Heiress who demanded Potter’s head grasps for more!!!”

Hermione flipped it open at her desk, skimming it side-by-side with the  _ Prophet.  _ She’d been friends with Harry long enough to know how quickly any Wizarding publication flip-flopped, depending on the tides of opinion. Privately, she’d long assumed at least one of the 28 had enough of a share in the  _ Prophet  _ to put a thumb on the scale. Even if gossip rags were hardly unbiased, either, Hermione preferred to read through as many interpretations as she could.

“Pansy Parkinson, heiress to the Parkinson Vault, seemingly isn’t satisfied to wait for her family fortune,” the  _ Presto!  _ article opened. “Previously, Parkinson was most notorious for her attempt to cast Harry Potter into the hands of the Dark Lord at the Battle of Hogwarts. She seemed reformed after the Battle, even going so far as to commit to a position as a public servant, working within the Department of Mysteries as a junior funding coordinator. As shocking new evidence comes to light, it would seem her aim was less to promote magical community programs than to erode the Ministry from within. Parkinson was arrested Friday evening and charged with multiple counts of bribery, embezzlement, and cronyism. As a source close to Parkinson told  _ Presto! _ exclusively, ‘Pansy grew up in Sacred 28 luxury, and she’s always had a taste for the finer things in life. A job handling Ministry funds was a bad cauldron from the start. Those Galleons were meant for the public good, but Pansy’s always struggled to think about anyone beyond herself.’”

Owls flitted back and forth in the halls as Ministry officials scrambled to reassign tasks, bicker over who got dumped with too much extra work (or who thought someone was withholding a plum project for themselves). All the chatter Hermione overheard was pages complaining that their weekends were trashed with the extra paperwork, the whip-crack of Howler Diffuser spells as irate messages from constituents came in, and higher-ups yelling out their office doors for specific files.

The story about Preston Parkinson’s death was buried on page 3 of the  _ Prophet.  _ Other publications hadn’t covered it at all.

“I don’t like it,” Hermione told Harry. “It feels wrong.”

Harry pushed his glasses to a more comfortable spot on his nose. He was sprawled sideways in Hermione’s other chair, one leg cocked over the armrest. He was wearing heavy boots caked with mud and grass. In his lap was a messy stack of parchments.

“Lord Parkinson was in line for the Kiss, in a few months. Maybe a Dementor got impatient,” he said.

Hermione frowned. “You haven’t seen them, in Azkaban. They work in groups. They all have assigned roles, it’s very structured.”

“How can you tell?”

“There are distinctions in the robes that let you tell one Dementor from another. The way the edges fray, and holes, and things like that. They don’t cross over to different tasks. I have diagrams in my notes. I could probably tell you where certain Dementors are stationed right now, without even having to visit. It seems off that one would break a rule and attack a prisoner prematurely.”

“I dunno, Hermione, I think you’re projecting a bit. You’re the one who doesn’t break rules unless you need to. A Dementor’s not going to follow the same moral codes, yeah?” Harry’s foot joggled. “There’s a lot weirder things happening right now with magical creatures than a Dementor performing the Kiss a few weeks early.”

“I think it means something,” Hermione insisted, Harry’s latter comment sailing gaily over her head. “If one of them has turned Rogue, it compromises the safety of the entire prison. You could be talking about dozens of lives, or more. I think we should get a closer look, maybe stay late tonight and poke into a few files. You in?”

Harry had stilled at the mention of a Rogue Dementor, but he looked away from Hermione. “I, er, sort of have plans tonight. Owl me, though, and tell me what you find out.”

*

Theo didn’t usually see much of his supervisor. Avoiding work so he could spend his days reading journals and visiting the Thestral grounds meant keeping out of his boss’s line of sight. Not that she seemed to mind. Debra had the next year’s calendar hung in her office already, so Theo had peeked through it and spotted her retirement date already circled and Charmed with little bursts of glitter. 

It was almost odd to be in her office while she was still there, instead of sneaking in later to read personnel files or hunt for secured paperwork so he could practice forging clearance Charms. 

Debra had a picture of a kitten hanging from a tree branch posted on her wall. She had a bobbed, curled hairdo and a pink bowl of Bertie Bott’s on her desk, but that was largely where the resemblance to Umbridge ended. Debra’s mug said “Pepper-Up, Buttercup” in curly letters. She had a white china picture frame that said “Grandbabies Are Magical,” with a squashy infant rubbing its nose inside. She wore purple glasses on a chain and had a cauldron mat printed with a picture of Bora-Bora. When she was lost in thought, she had a tendency to trace one painted finger over the sway of a palm tree.

“Need your signature, Nott,” she said, sliding over a stack of parchment sheets. “Folks upstairs are updating work agreements. I’ve ticked the spots where I need your autograph.”

“I signed all this when I came on,” Theo said, flicking through the stack.

“Most of it’s the same,” Debra agreed. “There’s a few new sections under Finance and Medical information. I didn’t expect them to turn around new procedure this soon after Pansy got arrested, but their solicitors must have been working all weekend.”

Theo’s brow furrowed. He skimmed the section, taking note of phrases like, “imprisoned, mentally incapacitated or otherwise made Ward of the Ministry” and “assume discretionary control of unclaimed moneys, property, and other tangible or intangible assets.” 

“This looks like it’s saying the Ministry can seize my estate,” he said.

“Hm?” Debra put her glasses on, pulled the parchment back. She licked her finger before turning the pages. Her nails were painted a shade of pink that was probably called Flamingo Dancer or something equally flagrant. “Oh, that. I think that’s just a CYA in case there’s no other options left. The Ministry has been working for the last three years to figure out the logistics to appoint custodians for some of the old Pureblood estates that went all muck in a handbasket after the War. This sort of thing is for criminal cases.”

“Cases like Pansy’s?”

Debra opened her mouth in a silent “ah.” She pushed the bowl of sticky jelly beans Theo’s way. “Yes, I see. It must be quite the shock. Nott, I told you when I hired you, and I’ll tell you again now, I’m all in favor of a new start for you kids. All that nonsense about ‘the blood will out’ doesn’t hold with me. You’re a decent lad, you keep your nose clean and you’re friendly. I’m sorry Pansy went the way of her father, but that doesn’t mean I see any of the rest of you 28 hires any different.”

*

Theo thought letting Potter come over to the Manor was set up to be a more languorous version of what they had been doing a few times, hurriedly, behind a shut office door after the Floo rush died down, or once after after-work drinks, Potter sneaking out from the Gryffindor pub and Theo slipping away from the Wyvern’s Blaze to press each other up against the rough stone wall of an alley.

Theo liked Potter’s hot breath on his throat and the way Potter yanked at buckles like there were only seconds to spare before something perilous happened if he couldn’t get his hands on Theo’s cock  _ right now.  _ He liked the way Potter shoved him against a wall but then spread his whole hand over the plane of Theo’s cheek before they kissed. The sharp way he inhaled through his nose when he took Theo’s mouth, like he was surfacing. 

What Theo liked less was the frustrating concealment of so much of what was going on. Having to hurry had its own fun, but Theo could practically blink and miss the flash of dick before Potter had his hand on the back of Theo’s head, like that would somehow shield an intruder from noticing Theo kneeling before him. When they switched, Theo similarly got about a second with his fly open before Potter practically lunged at him. Again, the frenzy in and of itself was fun, and not unflattering, but Theo spent enough time wracking his brain over invisible creatures. He wanted to see Potter stark fucking naked.

Potter, on the other hand, seemed under the impression that he was at Nott Manor for a fireside chat. He certainly had plenty of questions ready.

“What’s the deal with Malfoy?” he asked, out of nowhere.

Theo was pouring drinks. His hands stilled on the bottle, but his back was turned to Potter and there was no reason for Potter to notice any change. 

“Fifty years, as I heard it,” Theo said.

“No, I mean more, sort of, what’s he like. As a person.”

Theo turned around, two drinks in hand. He sipped from one of them, eyeing Potter over the rim. Then he threw the other straight back, for good measure.

“You knew him well enough, didn’t you? You both seemed to have your minds made up about each other.”

“I hated the bloke. I thought I knew what I needed to know about him.” Potter raked fingers through his hair. “You saw a lot more of him, being a Slytherin and all. You were pretty good friends with him, right? I remember seeing you hanging out together.”

“We were close, yeah,” Theo said shortly.

“Merlin, you weren’t—” Potter waggled a finger between Theo and an imaginary Malfoy. “Were you?”

“Are you asking if I fucked him?” Theo said. “No. What? Fuck.” He set the glasses, one empty, one half, back on the cart with the Firewhiskey bottle. He turned back to Potter, his arms folded. “Malfoy likes who he likes. So do I. Even if either of us might fancy a cock from time to time, that doesn’t necessitate us wanting each other’s. We were friends. Are friends. Whatever. It doesn’t bloody matter anymore because the forces of fucking goodness and light think he should be in a cell until he dies. If this line of questioning is meant as some kind of test of my loyalties, I’ve misunderstood whatever it is we’re doing here.”

Potter got up from his chair. He crossed the room and reached past Theo to take the glass with liquor left in it from the cart. “Right now we’re having a drink, and we’re learning a little about each other’s friends.” He touched his lip to the wet gleam Theo had left on the rim of the glass before tipping his head back for a swallow. 

Potter was standing close to Theo, intimately so. Theo allowed it, but he didn’t relax his stance yet.

“Malfoy’s in prison. So’s Greg Goyle. Now Pansy, too. Blaise and I get a drink from time to time. Daphne and I had an on-and-off something in school, but my dad’s up for the Kiss and she’s got a nice, respectable position teaching Charms. I’m not so much of a Pureblood catch anymore.”

Potter made a hum of agreement. “Ginny and I weren’t the match we thought, either. Ron’s still my best mate. He and I aren’t on the same Auror beat, so we don’t spend as much time together as we used to. I think he asked to be on a separate circuit, though he won’t admit it to me. He’s sick of getting noticed second when we walk in a room. And now Hermione’s been to Azkaban nearly a dozen times in six weeks, and she’s mentioned Malfoy more than once, to both me and Ron. Sounds like Azkaban isn’t getting to him nearly as much as it does the other prisoners.”

Potter turned toward the bar cart, refilling the glasses, still close enough that Theo could put an arm around him, if he wanted. Potter even leaned into him a little when he cocked his head to judge the evenness of the pours. He handed one glass to Theo, and Theo only had to reach a few inches to clink it against Potter’s.

“It’s not entirely surprising,” Theo admitted. “After three years of house arrest, I think Azkaban was almost a relief for Malfoy. It was worse for him being at home, with all the echoes of everything that happened there.”

“That’s the part I don’t get about what we’re doing here,” Potter said. He gestured a hand at the ornate wallpaper. “I don’t mean us. I mean  _ here. _ There isn’t enough gold in Gringotts to get me back to Privet Drive. Even Malfoy wanted to get away from the Manor. I thought you’d hate this place, so why bring me here?”

“It’s different,” Theo said. “You could have whatever you wanted after the war. The war ending changed things for both you and Malfoy, frankly, for better or worse.” Theo’s toes curled inside the stupid slippers he still wore around the house, because only ill-bred brats left barefoot smudges on the floors. He’d taken down most of the portraits and filled the gardens with anemones and gardenias, but the slippers were a hard habit to break. “No one expected much from me, before or after. My dad’s trial and sentencing lasted all of 90 minutes. I slept late and missed it. Malfoy can sell the manor to outrun his demons, if he wants, if he ever gets out of there. I’ve got the house and the vault and a job where people leave me alone, and that’s what I’ve got to work with to make sense of my life. So no, I’m not inclined to give any of it up for the sake of old grudges.”

“What about Hermione?”

“What about her?”

“If she’s one of those forces of goodness and light, don’t you figure she’d dredge up bad memories for him?” Potter swirled his Firewhiskey. “Some people get weird about hanging out with a war hero. They think they need to say something or prove something or be something in response.”

“Yeah, well, one of the benefits of being on the wrong side,” Theo said. He drained his drink. “You were never my hero.”

There was a staircase that led nearly straight to Theo’s room, of course, but he took Potter the long way, fresh tumblers of Firewhiskey in hand. He wasn’t entirely sure why. He didn’t expect Potter to be impressed by the Nott coat of arms or his dad’s disused potions study. 

He also didn’t expect that when he swung open an arbitrarily chosen door to reveal a small salon showcasing Nott Sr.’s collection of Byzantine cauldrons, Potter would start laughing.

“Push off with your bloody museum, already, Nott,” he said, and plunked his glass down next to a 9th century elixirs decanter. “Come here.”

Theo’s room had a four-poster bed with heavy green curtains. The dark furniture was all carved with clawed feet at the bottom. There was a marble washbasin styled to look like an eggshell, delicate and jagged, with a gold-plated pitcher next to it like the yolk. Even the walls had the oily sheen of satin threads running through the material. Theo was kissing Potter, and even if he wasn’t, he was used to the way his room looked. He didn’t think about it until he was naked and scooting back on the bed, the lustrous emerald taffeta of the bedspread rustling like leaves. Potter shed his own shirt with one rough yank at the back of the collar.

“Fucking look at you,” Potter growled. He leaned forward and put his hands on the foot of the bed. “No one should look good lying on this Henry VIII bullshit. I’m going to look like some scrawny fourth-year wanker when I climb up there. But you—”

He crawled up, knees straddling Theo’s legs. “You look like people eat caviar off your chest. You look like you’d pour someone Champagne just to feel the bubbles when you fuck their mouth. You look like you want somebody like me to destroy you.”

Potter’s mouth on Theo’s still had the sear of Firewhiskey. Theo imagined that heat on his cock, and a shudder of need went through him. Potter flipped Theo’s arms overhead, pinning him in place. 

“You’re not going anywhere.”

He sucked and bit his way down Theo’s body, leaving red marks in his wake. When he was too far to keep holding Theo’s arms, his hands braced Theo’s ribs and waist, holding him steady. When he finally put his mouth around Theo and Theo bucked into him, he pressed Theo’s hips back into the bed. Theo couldn’t get the leverage to thrust, and after another few moments he stopped trying and closed his eyes. Potter’s mouth was wet fire, but it wasn’t quite enough, and Theo had the sense that Potter was toying with him, holding back. Potter did something, changed the angle of his throat or the wrap of his tongue in a way that hit the glorious sweet spot, and then went back to what he’d been doing before. Theo grabbed at the back of Potter’s head.

“Please please,” he said, straining against Potter’s grip again.

Potter didn’t relent, just fell into a rhythm of  _ tease-tease-glorious, _ repeating until Theo was gasping into sobs, tears dribbling thin salt-lines over his temples. He waited until Theo was stammering, “Gods, Potter,  _ Harry, _ you bastard piece of shit,” and then he let Theo ride him out until Theo saw stars.

Theo was still weightless and trembling when Potter straddled him for his turn. Theo’d been cherishing some ideas of holding him down and giving Potter a taste of his own medicine, but now Potter was stroking his fingers through Theo’s hair like it was pure silk, tracing his fingertips over the outline of Theo’s face, and Theo’s hands fit perfectly into the contour of muscle in Potter’s thighs. He didn’t always let someone take over him, but Potter was rocking, smooth and gentle, and murmuring, “Gods, that’s good, Theo, that feels so good.” Theo fisted the bedspread, humming in satisfaction when he felt a rough-edged fingernail snag the fabric, and tilted his throat to reach deeper.

Afterwards, they found a comfortable tangle at the far edge of the bed.

Potter ran one hand lazily over the curve of the bedpost. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t smuggle that Thestral in here. You could let half the Ministry roam through the place, and they wouldn’t cross paths with it.”

Theo made an amused sniff. “It’s an idea. Maybe I should sell the place after all. It would do better as a conservatory of some sort than anything I’m using it for. Not that I know the first thing about hunting for flats.”

“Me neither. I’ve been staying at Grimmauld Place since the war. Sometimes I think about getting rid of it, too. Get out of England altogether, maybe.”

“So why don’t you?”

Potter made a non-committal squirm and settled his hand back on Theo’s ribs. “Me and Ron and Hermione still get together every week. It feels almost the same as old times, sometimes, the three of us. I’ve had as much of being the Chosen One as I ever want, but sometimes I wonder if they’re ready for us to be just mates, not the Golden Trio.”

“Mm,” Theo said in agreement. “Being a 28’s a little like that. There’s barely more than a dozen of us, even counting the ones in Azkaban. Which now includes Pansy. It’s stupid to use the name, but it’d be weird if people stopped.” A thought occurred to him. “They’ll probably try and make the Potters an official Sacred 28 family. At the five-year commemoration at Hogwarts, I’d guess. You’ll get to deal with being Pureblood nobility, as well as the Chosen One.”

“Merlin, spare me,” Potter muttered. “Wouldn’t it be the Sacred 29, then? Not the same ring to it.”

“Some families are wiped out already. Others don’t have heirs. They’ll drop the Gaunts or some such and put you in instead,” Theo said. “You’d better start shopping for silk sheets of your own, if you intend to keep up with society.”

Potter laughed. “Now I know you’re trying to scare me out of the country.” He leaned over for a kiss. “Maybe I’ll pinch this set on my way out. I’ve got half a mind to hang it on my wall like a trophy.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Decorating? Doesn’t sound like a man getting ready to leave it all behind.”

“I never said I didn’t have a few things keeping me here,” Potter said. “Set an early alarm, would you? I want to see how that foal’s wings are coming along.”

“Yeah,” Theo said, like he hadn’t felt any need to ask if Potter intended to stay. “First thing in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my incredibly slow job in the periodicals section when I had a work study in college. The bulk of my duties was to lay the magnetic tape in between pages, close to the spine, so students couldn't steal academic journals without setting off the alarm. Same went for things like OK! magazine, which really is more of a kind, condescending gesture than anything else. I presumably was expected to reshelve the periodicals students left laying about after they finished studying, but no one much was there on a Sunday afternoon, and the only stack of glossy magazines to put away were the ones I'd been reading.
> 
> I later had a boss who was not as nice as Debra, but also fairly checked out of work and absolutely in the habit of licking her finger to turn pages, which I find super gross. (I was in editing, and was probably going to need to continue handling those pages after she'd finished reviewing what she needed.) Question of the week: Share the worst, weirdest, or quirkiest habits of your boss or coworker (past or present).


	11. Malfoy

Hermione followed the Dementor that received her to the kitchens as usual, and as usual Cinnamon perked up when it noticed her. Hermione needed less of the Euphoria Elixir in her badge, these days. She could put up an Occlumency shield without much effort now when it was only Cinnamon near her. Curiously, the other Dementors still wore through her defenses much more quickly. 

This time, though, the light-gray Dementor didn’t drop what it was doing to drift Hermione’s way. It kept stirring a pot. If anything, it seemed to incline its head as if beckoning Hermione to come closer.

Hermione’s nose twitched. Something new was happening in the kitchens today. For the first time she could think of in all her visits to Azkaban, something smelled  _ good. _ And it was coming from the Dementor’s pot.

The Dementor was stirring a smooth, deep orange mixture that wafted a summery smell.

Hermione gathered her hair into her hand so she wouldn’t dangle her curls in the pot and inhaled. She had to smile. There was a hint of cinnamon mixed in with the rich fruit aroma, too.

“This smells amazing. Peach butter? Malfoy told me that a few weeks ago, you put something like half a bottle of hot sauce into oatmeal. The technique involved here — the temperature control and ingredient management is so much more advanced. Did he ask you to make this?”

Cinnamon shook its head. It extended a finger at Hermione. Then it reached slowly into a fold in its robe and withdrew a dried, wrinkled peach pit.

Hermione frowned. Then her hand went to her mouth. “Is that from the peach I brought him?”

Cinnamon nodded.

“Did I get him in trouble?”

A negative shake. Cinnamon took a spoon from a drawer, dipped up a small blob of the peach mixture, and held it out to Hermione.

She blew on it and took a tentative taste. It was buttery and sweet. Too sweet, really, almost cloying. Hermione had never found herself drawn to the more syrupy treats. “Good,” she lied, not wanting to discourage the Dementor from what was clearly the best effort it had made to date.

Cinnamon held up the wooden spoon it was using to stir. It reached its free hand, wiggled its fingers in the air in a flourish, and grasped a clean cheesecloth with something wrapped inside. Hermione caught a bright flash of yellow in the Dementor’s hand, and then Cinnamon squeezed the lemon, splashing juice and releasing the clean scent into the kitchen. It gave the pot a stir with two flicks of the wooden spoon, then poked the spoon into Hermione’s mouth before she had a chance to pull away.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. The sharp acid of the lemon cut through the too-rich sweetness, transforming it. Sweet and tart played together, bright and alive on her tongue. Even the peaches tasted more like peaches.

“Oh, wow,” Hermione said. She peered into the pot again, almost disbelieving. “That’s outstanding. The balance is perfect now.” She licked her lips. She almost wanted to get a fresh spoon for another taste of tart summer, but she wasn’t here to eat, and besides, Malfoy deserved his share of the one good thing cooking.

“I need to see someone else today,” she said when Cinnamon began to float toward the east corridor. “Do you know where I can find Narcissa Malfoy?”

The Dementor stopped and curled around itself to face her. There was something about the way its head tipped back in response to her voice that seemed confused. It drifted a few feet toward the east again and returned.

“I know,” Hermione said. She felt somewhat ridiculous, but it felt more ridiculous saying nothing. “I might see him, too, if I have time before the ferry. But I promised him I’d see his parents. Narcissa, please. And Lucius Malfoy as well.”

The Dementor did a tiny shake of its head that looked to Hermione a lot like  _ if you say so  _ and glided toward a north-facing corridor instead. Hermione wondered exactly how much it had been absorbing from Draco, specifically. He said the light-gray Dementor was the only one he saw. Maybe that exclusivity went both ways. If Cinnamon was only drinking in perceptions and memories of how Draco saw the world, could it infuse itself with that particular Malfoy sensibility, like a teabag steeping in a mug?

“He’s close to his parents,” Hermione said, again feeling the urge to break the gloomy silence. “He always has been. He’s spent so much of his life shaping himself around what he thought they wanted him to be. Even if he doesn’t stand by what they taught him anymore, their opinion matters.”

Hermione fiddled with her sleeve. Not that it mattered. With the new doors, she was protected from the possibility of seeing Malfoy’s parents eye her scars. Still, she couldn’t decide whether to tug her sleeve down or roll it up. They’d remember her, surely. They must.

She’d pushed her sleeves up over her elbows again when Cinnamon stopped walking. Hermione realized, too late, she had no idea what to call the woman inside the cell. 

“Madam Malfoy?” she tried, and made a face. Too much chance that the haughty woman would seize any opportunity to make Hermione feel like an underling, begging permission to speak. “Narcissa?” Far too familiar. 

Through the thin slats in the door, Hermione could just make out a figure slumped in a seated posture on the cot.

Well, she could introduce herself, at least. “I’m an Assistant Legislator with the Ministry of Magic. I…” Hermione stopped. She wasn’t here on Ministry duty, not really. That wasn’t what made her agree to let the Dementor lead her to this cell. “I was in your son’s year, at Hogwarts. That’s why I’m here. Draco asked me to come and see you.”

“My baby?” Narcissa's voice was nearly a whisper.

“I’ve been going to visit him,” Hermione said.

There was a rustle of fabric. Moments later, wild eyes appeared opposite Hermione’s. Like Bellatrix’s, dark just like hers. Hermione took a step back and felt Cinnamon pull closer, drawn to the surge of fear. She clamped down on her mind so quickly it hurt, like biting her tongue.

“Months with no word about my boy. The Ministry would not send someone to comfort a prisoner. What have they done to him?” Narcissa said.

Hermione shook her head. “He’s fine. He’s coping rather well, all things considered. The Occlumency you taught him is helping.”

“It’s not true,” Narcissa whispered. “He’s just a boy. He’s not strong enough.”

“He’s stronger than everyone seems to think,” Hermione said, bristling a little. “He’s strong enough to hold out hope. He’s open and curious and willing to learn. I’m not the only one who sees it. His appeal with the Magical Court of the European Union’s been approved. They haven’t set a hearing date yet, but he’s got a good chance, I’d say.”

Narcissa stepped closer to the gap in the door that separated them. Her eyes searched Hermione’s.

“Who are you?”

“Hermione Granger.” The words came out sharp. “You should know me. I was in your home once, in the war. I was tortured there.”

She wasn’t prepared, couldn’t have been prepared, for how Narcissa would respond.

“You’re a good girl,” Narcissa whispered. “You’ll go to see my son again? You will help him?”

“Yes.”

“He would not have sent you to me if he did not think highly of you,” Narcissa said. “Give him a message for me.” Her eyes narrowed, and she paused. 

Hermione’s lips curved in a sardonic smile back at her. Narcissa couldn’t know what message Hermione would deliver. The girl she saw tortured, who was now a Ministry official trained to sniff out any hint of a code between prisoners? There was precious little Narcissa Malfoy could trust her with, in case she ran straight to the Malfoys’ enemies. 

“Tell him I wish him well in his appeal. Tell him to bear himself as a Malfoy with pride.”

Hermione’s visit with Draco’s father was brief. Lucius Malfoy, from what she could make out of him, was one of the unluckier ones in Azkaban. When she shone a  _ Lumos  _ beam into his cell, she could make him out, staring at nothing, his shoulders crumpled. She had to call his name several times before he looked up.

It was only after the third time she raised her voice and yelled, “Draco! Your  _ son. _ Any message for him? Hello? He wants to hear from you, do you have anything to say to Draco?” that Lucius Malfoy spoke.

“Tell...him,” he said. His voice was flat, expressionless, with long pauses between words. “Tell him he is still the last, to me.”

Hermione didn’t bother attempting to Occlude as she made her way from Lucius’ cell to the east wing. Let Cinnamon feed on her anger all it wanted. Let it get a bloody good taste of indignant rage. 

“How  _ dare  _ he,” she muttered. “Anemic stick-in-the-arse son of a banshee, he’s doing his  _ bloody best!”  _ She spun on her heel to shout the last part down the hall. “Sorry that’s still not good enough for you!”

Cinnamon was standing completely still when Hermione turned back around. One of its hands pressed against the front of its cloak, fingers spread wide.

“Oh, don’t you start,” Hermione grumbled, and kept walking. The Dementor trailed alongside her, apparently realizing she knew her way and didn’t need to be led.

“You’ve been getting to know him, or, you know, eating him. Whatever you’re doing,” she said, waving a hand vaguely. “Do you think he’d want to know?”

“Granger?” an incredulous voice said. For a disorienting second, Hermione thought Cinnamon had spontaneously gained the ability to speak.

“Fuck me, it’s a bloody hallucination.” The voice came more distinctly from a cell to Hermione’s right this time.

“No, it’s not,” Hermione said. “This is Hermione, I’m here.”

“I knew it,” the voice said. “Is it all going to you then, Granger, you bitch? Can’t wait to get your grubby fists on it?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Pansy, is that you?”

“Pansy, is that you?” Pansy mocked. “Who the hell else would it be? You dragged your swotty ass all the way out here, now you want to play games?”

“Why does every Slytherin in here think I’m here to see them specifically?” Hermione muttered. “I came to see Malfoy. I didn’t realize your cell was right here.”

“Malfoy as in Draco Malfoy?”

“Every Malfoy they’ve got, frankly. Most visits it’s just him, though, yes.”

“How did he get you to come? Did he write to you?”

“Why would Malfoy write to me?” Hermione said. “What do you mean by me getting my grubby fists on—what, exactly?”

“Look, all I know is I didn’t sign the new work papers, there were Aurors waiting when I got home, and now you’re sniffing around my cell. You’ve always stuck tight to power, haven’t you? Have they promised you a share of ‘reparations’ from my vault if you wring some confession out of me?”

Hermione folded her arms. “Do you have something to confess?”

“Fuck you.”

“Seriously, are you okay? Has your solicitor been allowed to speak with you? I read the actual parchment for your arrest. The charges look completely spurious. I don’t understand what would make the Wizengamot bother to hear it. You’d think they’d have you on house arrest instead of in here, as well. There’s more comfortable places to detain nonviolent suspects under investigation.”

“The Wizengamot doesn’t give a Mandrake’s tit about my comfort,” Pansy said. “Don’t tell me your Gryffindor heart bleeds for me, either, or you’d be doing something to get me out.”

When she finally made it to the east wing, Hermione rapped on the metal to help Malfoy find her. Draco was faster this time. 

“Did you get to see them?”

“Your mother seems strongest,” Hermione said. “She had the presence of mind not to trust me when I said I came from the Ministry, which is probably more of a good sign than not. She asked me to wish you luck from her on the appeal, to be proud to be a Malfoy.”

“Not sure how much there’s left to be proud of,” Draco muttered. He hissed a sharp breath. “I’m head of the Malfoys now. If I ever get a chance to get out of here. I hadn’t thought about that yet.”

“That’s not all,” Hermione said. “I did see your father. He’s more affected by the Dementors, but he did say a few words. You might want to prepare yourself.”

Hermione told him the message. She heard the rasp of cloth on metal as Draco slid down the wall to sit by the tray slot. But when he spoke, what Draco actually said was, “Thank Merlin.”

“I mean, he’s alive, at least,” Hermione said dubiously.

“You must have made quite the impression. Mother warned me that he’d fare badly in here. Figures only someone as shrill as you are could get through to him anymore.” His voice turned more serious. “It’s not what you think. It’s the last puzzle piece. The one that makes everything fit. I came last in our family and made us complete. That’s what he’s saying, that even after everything that happened...it’s a good thing.”

“Your family is a mess,” Hermione said.

“So’s yours, from what I understand,” Malfoy said.

“Point taken,” Hermione said. She sat on the other side of the tray slot. “They really love you.”

“Yes. I suppose they do.”

“That means something. Don’t downplay it. If and when you get out of here, I don’t know that I’d recommend bragging about Malfoy power or influence if I were you, but if you wanted to be proud of the way your family cares about each other, I don’t think anyone could fault you.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit pointless if we can only be a family in prison visits?”

“I would give a lot to hear my parents say anything like what yours did,” Hermione said. “I don’t know if they’re ever going to be able to tell me those sorts of things again. Even if they come back to England. Maybe even if they get their memories back fully, they wouldn’t be able to see me the same way, knowing what I did to them.”

“You said yourself they’re still taking your calls,” Malfoy said. “The kind of people who raise a daughter as bullheaded as you are won’t give up that easily. You’ve got a chance to get it right with them going forward, as well, which you shouldn’t take lightly.”

“What if it doesn’t work? It’s been years. What if this is as good as it’s going to get?” Hermione hadn’t said this out loud before. “Nothing’s changed with them for a while. I think we’ve reached the limit of what they can give me.”

“I see,” Malfoy said. Hermione could almost feel him thinking on the other side of the door. “I know what it feels like to have done something irrevocable.”

Hermione waited.

“I spent years trapped, to various extents, in Malfoy Manor, before and after the war. My home will never be what it was. My family will never be as it was before all of this happened. I’m sure from the outside, it looks like I’m forever different, too. Certainly, as you kindly point out, my reputation is destroyed if I ever get to walk free again. But I don’t feel as different as it must look. If I’ve learned anything from what I’ve been through over the last four years,” Malfoy said carefully. “It’s what I’m capable of, and what I’m not. It’s more about understanding what’s true about you, rather than that any one thing you’ve done changed you into a different person. If you think about yourself in those terms, I’d guess you’re someone you’ll be able to live with, in the end.”

“You’ve changed more than you’re saying,” Hermione said. “You’re being nice to me. That’s different.”

“Maybe I was always capable of that, too. There have always been rules I’ve been expected to follow. Maybe if I’d broken different ones than I did, I’d be somewhere else now.”

“I hope you can be,” Hermione said. 

“Were my parents decent to you? They didn’t...call you names, make things unpleasant? You’re all right?”

Hermione tipped her head back, blowing out some of the stress. “Your mother was kind to me. I expected her to be awful, but she really wasn’t. It was uncomfortable and weird, but it wasn’t bad.” She scrunched her legs up under her. “Would it actually bother you if your parents were rude to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the future I thought I’d have is gone, and nothing matters anymore?” he said. “Because I’m exhausted. This is hard, and so far, surprising as it may be, you’ve made things easier rather than harder. I don’t want to see you punished for it.”

“Careful. You almost sounded like you liked me there, for a moment.”

“You like me,” he said, halfway between a taunt and a test. 

His hand was visible, dangling just into the thin gray light near the tray opening. Hermione looked down at it. It almost looked casual, but the angle leaned too far toward her hand.  _ If, _ she could almost hear him say, careless and bored. If you want.

“How is it that you can show me what’s in your actual mind, and you can’t just tell me what you want?” she said. She moved her hand near his, leaving an inch between them.

“Do you have anything pressing waiting back at the Ministry? I imagine they keep you busy.”

“There’s always work,” Hermione said.

“The sun’s going down earlier, now,” Malfoy said. “The Dementors are more active at night. I wake up in the dark and I can tell they’re there. I hear their robes slide on the stones. I hate it.” His fingers twitched, and then stretched forward just a little, just enough to touch his fingertips to hers. “I want you to stay.”

Hermione swallowed. “Stay the night?”

“Possibly,” he said, with that sort of studied indifference. “Would you?”

Rogue Dementors, Hermione thought. Strange new doors. Pansy, imprisoned over what amounted to a handful of undocumented Galleons out of petty cash and putting a few friends’ resumes at the top of the heap. 

A whole night with Draco Malfoy, working together to uncover something new.

“I need a little time to get what I’ll need,” Hermione said. “I’ll be back soon. Be safe until then, okay?”

*

It was late enough again that it was early. Another maybe two-thirty, maybe three in the morning, and they’d finally passed the point in the fight where they were so exhausted in body and heart that comfort mattered more than trying to make the other person understand.

They’d fallen into bed, shed their clothes in apology and surrender. Ron was moving on top of Hermione, kissing her tear-stained cheeks. She couldn’t entirely decide whether she liked it. She wanted to like it. She knew she  _ should  _ like it, this was such a sweet thing, such a Ron thing, the gruff way he swiped his fingers and lips over her face to wipe the wetness away. 

Honestly, though? It would perhaps be nice—better, even, if Ron stopped. Hermione was exhausted and she was twining her hips, trying to keep Ron from leaning too hard on a sensitive spot on her thigh long enough that she could get a climax in despite her weariness, and having his breath in her face wasn’t helping her concentrate on muscling her way into an orgasm.

And the tears were still coming, that was the other problem. Wiping your beloved’s tears away was for when you’d made up. Hermione didn’t even feel like she was crying properly. The tears leaking out of her were just a physiological response to stress and overwhelm and the fact that she was so gods-damned tired of staying awake too long fighting and waking up with thickened, salt-crusted eyelids. Ron’s attempts at comfort were mainly smearing her tears over her skin. There would be more, after each kiss. There would always be more. That was why they kept coming, and why his efforts to chase them away felt so hollow.

He could make up with her, for now. He could even make her come. They had the history and strength to slam through fight after fight together and keep pulling themselves back up. But there was no tenderness left in the times between the fights. He didn’t sit with her, listening thoughtfully to what she felt and worried and dreamed about, and helping her figure out which parts were true. He was too guarded and threatened by her successes to let her into his thoughts and under his skin. Hermione felt no urge to reach out and hold his hand in the dark. 

That, more than anything else, was what did it in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interesting thing about being relatively new to the ship is finding out more of the fanon tropes and preferences. When I wrote Chosen, I took it almost for granted that both of Malfoy's parents would dig their heels in against Hermione. I was surprised to learn how popular it is for Narcissa to be quite warm to Hermione! It's still difficult for me to see exactly how that works, but it's interesting, and it seems that it would have to be based in her fierce commitment to her son above anything else. And I think Hermione, who is so ferocious herself, could see and respect that kind of protective love. Anyway, it's an interesting dynamic that I probably wouldn't have played with if I hadn't seen other writers do it, so it makes me happy that people are still creating in this space when I am so powerfully late to the game.
> 
> Question of the week, based on a wistful conversation I had earlier today: If you could open and safely enjoy one space that is closed due to pandemic, what would you choose? I am thinking a lot lately about the big New Year's party I went to, ringing in 2020 of all years. I listened to loud music and played roulette and drank French 75s overlooking a harbor. I had a passionate half-hour conversation with a girl I met in the ladies' restroom and toasted midnight with more champagne, and fireworks. Little did we know, ha, but ironic as that celebration feels now, I'm so glad we went.


	12. Rogues

Harry helped Hermione box up her things. Ron should keep the flat, Hermione had agreed. She’d been the one to end things. Not to put too fine a point on it, but she also earned more and would have an easier time finding another suitable place to live. She wouldn’t even have minded if she had to sleep in her office for a few nights until she could get herself situated somewhere, but Harry said there was an extra bedroom in Grimmauld Place, and it didn’t make sense not to use it.

Not that he seemed entirely comfortable. He leaned awkwardly in the doorway once they’d hauled all the boxes into what would serve as Hermione’s room.

“You’re welcome here as long as you need, obviously. It’s the Order’s as much as mine, so you’ve got every right,” he said. He took off his glasses and worried at them with the edge of his shirt.

“It’s just a place to crash until I have time to look for another flat,” Hermione said. “I appreciate you letting me hang out until I get on my feet, but I’m sure it doesn’t make it easier with Ron to have me here.”

“I’d rather not get in the middle of things,” Harry admitted. “What did it, if you don’t mind me asking? I knew you two had some rows, but you’ve been arguing as long as we’ve known each other.”

“What did Ron tell you?” Hermione said, turning to unpack clothes from a suitcase. “You usually talk to him first.”

Harry came in and sat on her bed, folding one leg under him. He reached for a box where Hermione had dumped a hamper of clean laundry and started folding shirts and matching socks. “From the sounds of it, your Azkaban project hasn’t been making things easier between you.”

Hermione made an exasperated noise. “He would blame it on me visiting Malfoy.”

“He told me you’re always chasing another certification or study, working late. He said you’d rather visit Azkaban than the Burrow. He didn’t mention Malfoy, interestingly enough.”

“Oh,” Hermione said.

“Do you think Malfoy had something to do with it?”

“No,” Hermione said. She opened a box of books and started filling a shelf. “No, that’s not possible. Malfoy and I don’t talk about Ron. I don’t think I’ve even mentioned him to Malfoy. We have more important things to discuss than whoever I’m dating. Was dating.”

“If you say so,” Harry said.

“It’s just that Ron isn’t exactly the most sympathetic audience about sensitive topics,” Hermione said, shoving a thick hardcover into the last space on one shelf. “You know? I like the Burrow and Molly and Arthur fine, but he acts like he can sub in his family to cover for mine.” She sat on the foot of the bed, across from Harry. “Yeah, I work a lot, okay, I’m trying not to peak as ‘the war heroine’ and that takes some effort. But I think it’s really telling that Malfoy of all people is the one willing to hear me out when I’m trying to sort through what happened to me, instead of brushing me off.”

Harry held up his hands. “Hermione, you don’t need to convince me of anything. I was curious. I’m not trying to get you back together.”

“Okay, good.” Hermione gathered a pile of folded shirts and opened the dresser drawer.

“Sounds like you and Malfoy have found a fair bit to talk about, though.”

“You don’t sound entirely surprised,” Hermione said. She closed the drawer and leaned against it. “Why is that? Do you know something I don’t?”

“I did have his wand for a few months,” Harry said. “You get to know something about a wizard, using their wand. It’s almost like you can feel bits of the person, left behind.”

Hermione tilted her head and folded her arms. “What did you notice?”

“His wand responded fast, even to little movements. Sometimes I felt like I’d barely thought of a spell and it was already half-cast. He’s always been quick enough to fire off his mouth, so that doesn’t surprise me much. But wands choose the wizard. If a wand this keen to register subtle cues wanted to be with him, it makes some sense that he’d be able to listen well, when he wanted. And, I don’t know, there was a sort of feel to it.” Harry waved his hand in a gentle, undulating pattern in the air. “When the magic came out. You know how when you were using Bellatrix’s wand, it didn’t want to work with you? All that force and cruelty was soaked into it. Malfoy’s wasn’t like that. It was more slippery and elegant. The torque was different. I had to relearn the timing on a few spells. I could see him doing a lot of twisting and bending to get where he thought he needed to be, but it was hard to think of him as being evil, after using his wand.”

“He shouldn’t be in Azkaban,” Hermione said. “His trial was a joke. Thank Merlin it’s going to appeal. Malfoy didn’t even testify at his trial about some of the most pertinent elements of his case, in my opinion. His experiences during the war in Malfoy Manor were more captive than accomplice.” 

“So why didn’t he show the Wizengamot?”

She shook her head. “It was private. He had no reason to believe his feelings would be treated with respect or make a difference. Reliving his most painful memories in front of a court that’s already made up its mind didn’t feel worth it. He’s survived trauma and turned away credibly from former sympathies, from what he’s shown me. He deserves a community who can help him continue to heal, and make use of his talents.”

Harry whistled. “You’ve never talked about him like that.”

“The Wizarding world would be poorer without him,” Hermione said. “I don’t think any of the prisoners in there should stay in Azkaban, frankly. The Dementor I’ve been studying with Malfoy is strange enough. If more Dementors start behaving erratically and pose a greater threat, the whole prison could be compromised.”

“Magical creatures are changing,” Harry murmured, frowning.

“The Dementors aren’t what they were,” Hermione said. “Actually, in case you putting me up for a little while wasn’t favor enough, I’ve got something to ask you.”

“What?”

“I want you to be lookout for an off-record trip to Azkaban,” Hermione said, savoring the thrill of the words. She looked up at Harry, already smiling. 

To her surprise, Harry was chewing his lip. “Hermione, look,” he started.

“You can’t possibly say no to this,” Hermione said. “Am I hearing Harry Potter try to turn down an adventure?”

“We did a lot of our schemes because Voldemort was trying to kill me,” Harry said. “I’m not saying no to adventure. I want lots of adventures. I just don’t want to get sucked into playing ‘Hogwarts Harry’ forever, you know?” He looked at her warily. “Did you plan on bringing Ron, too? Like a Trio thing?”

“No, I’m not daft,” Hermione said. “I’m not being reckless for the sake of it. It’s an undercover job, and I want to have backup. If I go through all the paperwork, the Ministry will probably notify Dementors about an overnight watch. I want to see what the prisoners are seeing. If the Dementors are changing in ways the Ministry doesn’t know about, we need to investigate. We’d go and talk the plan through with the ferry operator, too, so we have help if there’s trouble.”

Harry sucked in his lower lip again. He drummed his fingers against his trouser leg. Then he said, “I know an expert in non-Beings, too. Let me see if he’s up for it.”

*

Hermione had to search well past the ferry’s usual docking point to find the vessel and its owner. They were in a small, seemingly private wharf. About the length of a Quidditch pitch away stood a large, weather-grayed cottage, with several smaller dwellings around it and a round courtyard marked with magical insignia. Charon was chipping barnacles off the sides of the ferry by hand, tossing some into the sea and keeping others in a metal pail.

“ I know you aren’t boarding,” Charon said when he saw Hermione. “The Ministry notifies me when to expect passengers. They certainly would not have neglected to mention three. My family is not in the business of pleasure cruises, Assistant Legislator Granger.”

“We’re not asking for one. Although it’s true that we’d like to discuss a private voyage, if you’re amenable,” Hermione said.

“For what purpose, then?”

“Intelligence,” Hermione said. “Something’s out of order in the prison. We’d like your help gaining access to Azkaban at night to see if we can figure out the source.”

“Are those the markings for a wind-binding ritual?” Nott said. When Hermione looked over her shoulder, Nott was nearly vibrating with excitement, bouncing on his toes. “Are you trying to replicate nesting brume in a controlled setting? Have the ferrykeepers deciphered the magical conditions for a forced spawn?”

“Sharp eye, loose mouth. Is this another of your proposed passengers?” Charon asked Hermione. 

“Theodore Nott, the younger,” Nott said, a little breathlessly. He half-stretched a hand to shake, seemed to remember that Charon not only had both hands full but was in fact still offshore, and turned the movement into a self-deprecating flourish. “I’m working in Mysteries, but I’m doing my dissertation in Non-Beings, concentrating in taxonomizing variations of inchoative and cessative events across species as compared to the typical birth/death for mortal species.”

“Nott, you’re such a nerd,” Harry said, amused.

“Shut up, Potter,” Nott said, without looking away from Charon. He was still fiddling with his hands in excited consternation. “It’s so fucking cool to meet you.”

“A lawmaker, a scholar. And an Auror, as the third,” Charon said. 

“We’d basically be there for backup,” Harry said.

Charon barely looked Harry’s way. “Certainly you would, at least. You want a battle. And you, the scholar? What are you after?”

Nott stopped fidgeting. For the first moment since Harry had shown up with his reedy, manic companion in tow, Hermione could see the Slytherin emerge. Nott gave Charon a calculating look and said, “Thestrals. I need to know if I can fly one by night. Potter and I would keep watch by air and be ready if Granger signals.”

“And what would the signal mean?” Charon asked Hermione. 

“An attack,” Hermione said. “If I’m in danger, I need to be able to call for help. We’d potentially call on you in that event, to make sure we all get out safely.”

“It seems to me,” Charon said, chipping at a particularly large barnacle, “That if one wishes to avoid attack in Azkaban, the easiest way to achieve this is not to spend ill-advised overnights there. Declining to escort you seems to be the best way I can be of service.”

“Don’t you care if people are being hurt in there?” Harry said.

“The nature of Azkaban, the way the Ministry chooses to run it, makes harm unavoidable. It is not in the sphere of my duties to intervene. I’m a ferry captain, not a judge.”

“That’s a bit reductive, isn’t it?” Theo said. “Your family’s legendary. They say your ancestors wrote a codex on Dementors that no one outside your bloodline is allowed to see. Even the Death Eaters wouldn’t try to take over the ferry. Aren’t you curious what’s happening?”

“Perhaps, but as you yourself acknowledge, my family is self-sufficient when it comes to our work.”

“You told me you and your family are immune to the Dementors,” Hermione said. “Is that from spending so much time near them? Would other people be able to develop an immunity?”

“As a rule, they don’t,” Theo said. “Right? Azkaban would hardly be much use to the Ministry if criminals could wear out the effects.”

“What about immunity against a specific Dementor? If a prisoner had one assigned guard, for example,” Hermione said.

“The Azkaban Dementors are a colony group,” Charon said, frowning. “There shouldn’t be one that holds exclusive access to one prisoner. Communal feeding keeps their minds bonded. It is part of how they communicate. Only Rogues choose one prey.”

“There might be a Rogue in Azkaban,” Hermione said.

“You are mistaken,” said Charon. “A Rogue Dementor unchecked would ravage the entire colony. If any Dementor within a colony shows signs, the others will turn on it and destroy it.”

“At least one of them is performing the Kiss. I’ve seen at least one Dementor favor a specific prisoner as well. I don’t know if they’re a colony anymore.”

Charon let the pail swing in one hand, the shells inside knocking against each other. “And what would make you useful, if this were the case?”

Hermione could see Azkaban in the distance, the nesting brume wreathing around the towers. “Because I know the prisoner in question. He’ll talk to me. And I’m starting to think the Dementor’s bonded to me, too.”

*

Draco had fallen asleep thinking about Hermione’s hands. When he asked her to stay and she said yes, he thought she was coming back that night. When she didn’t, Draco could work out where he’d misunderstood her, but then she didn’t come back the next day either, and the first thought that sprang up was he wished he’d reached for her hand when he’d wanted to. Her fingertips had been against his. He could have done it. 

At the time, it had felt more important that she know without him having to ask. Like it would cheapen the actual comfort if he had to explain to her why he wanted it. As hours crept into days, it felt like the more important question was whether he’d gotten it or not, and he hadn’t. He was hitting a wall again with the crushing weight of the isolation in here.

The silver lining, if one could call it that, was that disappointment and longing and regret were unpleasant feelings, so they didn’t evaporate the memory out of reach. Draco was relatively free to lie in his cot ruminating on things he wished he’d done.

So he’d thought a lot about the feel of her hand, and the sound of her voice, and the unexpected way she looked at him sometimes, back when they could still see each other, especially when they’d just finished an Occlumency session and she’d accidentally shown him too much. 

He was in the middle of a confusing, nebulous dream circling over many of these things when a sound woke him. When the door of his cell unlatched with a dull metal clank, Draco’s first thought was that she was here. It didn’t add up for a few seconds that the figure in the open doorway would have a hood pulled over its head and breathe with that hoarse rattle.

Draco sat up. “What’s going on?” he asked, trying halfway through to make the question sound more like a demand, like he was in control. “Cinnamon? Is that you?”

The light-gray Dementor prowled forward. Draco tried to scramble off his cot, but his legs were twisted around in the fleece blanket and Cinnamon moved faster than Draco expected. Its gray hands were cold and strong. It cupped Draco’s jaw in both hands, forcing his face upward. Then the Dementor lowered its face to his, and Draco was plunged into darkness.

Darkness, but not oblivion. The rich, inky darkness of night. Draco felt a rushing sensation of speed. He was flying, or it was a memory of flying. Yes. But there was no broom, only a twisted length of cloth.

Draco wanted to blink into awareness, wanted to orient himself. The stars. His mother’s family knew to look to the constellations to find themselves. The night was unbroken by human lights, laced with starlight and the wider slices of moonlight reflecting off the sea below. He tried to spot the familiar patterns that would help him understand what was happening.

Draco felt a reverberation of surprise and interest. It came from outside him.

All at once, Draco understood. He was in the Dementor’s memory somehow. Cinnamon wasn’t administering the Kiss. It was doing the reverse, putting something into him. Draco slammed his Occlumency down against the wave of revulsion. He couldn’t afford to anger the creature holding his body and soul in its hands. He had to stay sharp, be cunning. The length of cloth—that was the cloak of another Dementor. Draco calmed himself, not without effort, and concentrated on the elements of the projection he found himself in. There was a sensation of  _ back then,  _ a tight hold on the cloak. The cloth twisted around him snugly. There was a sense of purpose and intention, eager listening, the absorption of instructions that filled a need.

This was a happy memory, Draco realized with a shock. Or as close as Cinnamon had to things like happiness or security. He was experiencing what Cinnamon had known as—as a baby, or whatever bloody thing they were when they began. Cinnamon was doing its best to put Draco at ease.

Draco felt another external flutter of emotion, a sense of affirmation and a little thrum of something like pride. Cinnamon was quite young still, Draco was beginning to understand. Whatever it was planning to do to him now, it may well be the first time Cinnamon got to be the big Dementor, the teacher. It was pleased with itself.

The Dark Lord had tested Draco often, in their time confined together at Malfoy Manor. Not because he seemed to hold real suspicion. He could have killed Draco, if that were the case. But Legilimency hurt, the way Voldemort practiced it, and so it entertained the Dark Lord to see his most disappointing servant’s coward son shiver and cringe. The point was, Draco was experienced enough to be fast. As he had done then, so he did now, flicking forward the most Slytherin side of himself, keen and hungry to learn whatever he could use later. One of the most unsettling pieces of this whole situation was that what Cinnamon was doing didn’t hurt Draco the way the Dark Lord’s scraping presence in his mind had.

The memory of flying in darkness faded. Draco sensed a new current of urgency in the thought wrapped around him. The easy part of all of this was done, then. Cinnamon was here because it wanted to tell him something, and this was only going to work if he trusted it. 

Trembling, Draco opened his mind. Little by little, in the confused fragments of an alien creature that hadn’t existed long enough to understand how to draw meaning from most human interactions, Cinnamon began to show him things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Dementor lore! I have to give a special shout-out to my husband this chapter. When I say things like, "What if Draco kind of...has a vision of what it's like to be a newly emerging Dementor? Is that too weird even for me?" He is the one who assures me that I can pull it off. My stories are weirder and I am a happier writer because of his encouragement.
> 
> I am going to skip updating next week because Christmas, and because I have been struggling with writing and could use some extra time to get some work in order. A very merry Christmas to any of you who celebrate it <3.
> 
> Question of the week: If you are a writer or other creative*, who is your best supporter? I would love to see some alpha/beta/fan love! (*Please apply 'creative' as liberally as you like: Best study buddies, appreciators of homemade dinners, all counts)


	13. Protectors

“Malfoy. Are you sleeping? It’s me.”

Draco’s eyes opened. He had been sleeping, in fact. He didn’t have a clock, or light, or anything to do after darkness fell. Some nights he lay awake for a long time, while other times he slipped early into a fitful doze, before waking before dawn to catch the brief span of time when direct light shone into the cell.

He didn’t answer yet. He’d woken up with Granger on his mind before. If it was a Dementor out there again, saying something could attract its attention.

“Hey,” the whisper came again, more insistent. “Malfoy, wake up.”

“Granger?” He propped himself up, squinting, as if he’d somehow catch a glimpse of her.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Sorry it took a while, I wanted to make sure we’d have everything we need. Should I cast a Lumos, do you think? It’s dismal in here. Or hm, actually perhaps we’d better not. We want conditions to be as close to normal as possible.”

“Did Cinnamon let you in?” Draco asked.

“No, I thought it was better to try and keep away from the Dementors as much as possible.”

Draco sat up properly. “How’d you manage that?”

“I’ve been tracking movement patterns through the prison for months now. Once you understand which Dementors fall into which role groupings, the guarding patrol routes are much easier to understand. Charon gave me a lift to the island, and then Harry took me to the roof by Thestral. Once I was there, I Occluded as tight as I could and slipped inside. It was rather exciting, actually. I haven’t had much occasion to inspect the towers, and they were fascinating. I almost wish I had more time to look around and take more thorough notes, but I wanted to get to you as soon as I could.”

Draco crossed the cell and pressed his face up to the door. He didn’t see her at first. When he dropped to his knees, he could make out that she’d already seated herself on the other side. Through the thin slit, he could see bits and pieces of her in the gloom. One perfect spiral curl twisting out from the untamed mass of her hair. The neat line of her nose in profile. A dark brown eye, which crinkled at the corner when she caught him looking back at her.

“There you are,” she said. “Ready for sleepover night? I’ve been looking forward to it. I haven’t been out late doing something semi-legal in some time.”

Draco suppressed a smile. “What’s the plan, then?”

“If there’s a Rogue in the colony, I want to know about it. I have my diagrams, and I’ve made calculations of what times are my best chances to poke around a bit and check some other areas in here. For the most part, I’d like to stay near you,” Granger said. “You seem to be a nexus for unusual Dementor activity.”

_ You don’t know the half of it.  _ Draco almost let out a bark of a laugh. If Granger knew what Cinnamon had done the other night—but he didn’t want to tell her, at least not yet. The Dementor had eventually released him and slunk back out of the cell, leaving Draco bewildered and scared, but unharmed. Draco understood pieces of what Cinnamon had shown him, but other fragments of thought were garbled and perplexing. He knew from experience that once Granger got it in her head that there was something new to pursue with the Dementor, there’d be no hope distracting her from it. If he told her what Cinnamon had done, she’d pelt him with questions. She might even leave. Draco could relate to Granger’s desire to get to the bottom of what was happening, but he also wanted company. He could tell her later.

Granger was moving around. Draco could hear rustling, but he couldn’t get the right angle to see more than the little snatches of her.

“What’s going on? Sounds like you’re unpacking,” he said.

“You can’t expect me to show up for a night in Azkaban without bringing supplies,” she said.

“What time is it, anyway?”

“Not quite midnight,” she said. “Aha! Here we go. That elixir they use for Ministry badges is okay, but Lupin was always right. If you really want to feel better after a Dementor encounter, there’s nothing better than chocolate.” 

A square corner bumped Draco’s thigh.

“Go on. There’s plenty to share.”

She’d bought the good stuff, too. No simple Chocolate Frogs, these. The box didn’t even have the textured hexagon seal that would mark it as Honeyduke’s bonbons. Some of the truffles were dark and glossy, others textured with nuts or French fleur de sel, still others printed with delicate patterns in gold leaf, just visible in the gray light. Draco could smell them as soon as Hermione lifted the lid.

“I don’t remember the trolley witch carrying anything like this,” he said.

“No, I thought we’d need something more potent. They’re from Peredur,” she said.

Draco’s eyebrows went up. Even a simple milk chocolate ganache from Peredur could cost ten Sickles. The rarer truffles sold for four or five Galleons apiece.

“This is...rather extravagant, Granger.” He ran a finger along the edge of the box and didn’t reach the other corner. “Merlin, how many did you buy?”

“Don’t tell me I’ve actually impressed you,” Granger said.

“My mother used to pick out a box of four with me, after we bought books and things for a new year. What did you do, go in and say, ‘I’ll have one of everything’?”

“You’ve been in here for months and I’ve just ended things with Ron, which is by far the better outcome for both of us in the long run, but that didn’t make it easy, so. We both deserve a treat.”

For some reason, when Granger said “better outcome for both of us,” it took Draco a second to remember that of course that meant her and Weasley. 

“Soothing a broken heart? I hope you haven’t woken me up for company while you mope over Weasley. I’ll take my chances with a Dementor,” he said.

“Oh, shut up,” Granger said. “They’re a bit more celebratory than that. Not that I’m  _ happy  _ about it, just more...relieved, maybe. We were dragging each other down. Maybe we have a real chance to be friends again, in time, without complications. And he’s free to find someone who fits into his family, and I’m free to...be someone we didn’t expect.”

“I see. Well, cheers. And my congratulations,” Draco said, and popped a chocolate in his mouth. It was filled with caramel, which had been infused with Earl Gray, so there were notes of bergamot and black tea leaves mingling in with the sweetness.

“I thought they were going to include a map of which was which,” Granger said.

“Stop pouting and eat a chocolate, Granger.”

“I’m not pouting!”

“Dig deep for that Gryffindor courage and eat a chocolate without planning which flavor to choose in advance,” Draco said. He chewed. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’ve turned out unexpectedly.”

“Likewise,” she said. “Although it occurs to me you’ve mentioned that maybe I didn’t know you as well as I thought. We’ve got some time to fill before I’ve got a clear shot to poke around without the guards noticing. So what were you like, with the Slytherins?”

“What did the Gryffindors think we were like?”

“Oh, goodness. What did we think went on in the Slytherin dorms? Where to start, really?”

“I can take a guess. We all thought you lot were cavorting around, smashing everything in your Common Room and playing Butterbeer Pong every night until you couldn’t see straight.” He could hear her laughing, which stirred a flutter of warm satisfaction in his chest. Granger never seemed to grasp what it meant to hear someone laugh like that in Azkaban. “So I’d imagine you thought we were scheming, posturing little brats who wiled away the time huffing illicit Potions, inventing nasty rumours, and having depraved sex.”

“You forgot swanning around showing off whatever Pureblood fashions your parents would buy, but sure.”

“Well, that part might have some truth to it,” Draco said.

“But not the rest?”

“All right, perhaps a bit of the rest as well. It’s more impressive if the rumors undersell what you’re doing in bed, there’s a certain expectation to be innovative. You mean to tell me the Gryffindors were a staid, studious bunch?” 

Her laughter again. “Well, I was. Most of the time. Often enough. Without Ron and Harry needing my help with dragon eggs and Basilisks, or dragging me out to secret meetings, my Hogwarts experience might have been plainer.”

“Don’t talk that rubbish at me. You had every opportunity to find your way out of trouble. You’d have found your way into it without those two tossers.”

“I was hopeless at Butterbeer Pong, I do have to admit that. You’re not far off for a Friday night in Gryffindor Tower, but most nights really were quieter. We had homework, and Gryffindors can get as heated over a board game as something flashier.”

“Right. Same for us. Shocker, we spread nastier gossip than the Hufflepuffs, and maybe got up to a few things we shouldn’t — but who at Hogwarts didn’t? A lot of the time we were just trying to get good marks and have fun with our friends, like anyone. I can think of a few times we were daring enough to give the Gryffindors a run for it.”  _ With you here,  _ he didn’t add.  _ I can remember it again now.  _

“Like what?”

“Remember the big snowstorm, fifth year? Pansy and Daphne and Millicent dared me and Blaise and Theo to go streaking by the faculty lounge, through the snow. They said we were a load of fancy boys who wouldn’t get our toes cold and put up ten Galleons each that we wouldn’t do it. Easiest pocket money I ever made.”

She snorted. “I would have liked to see that.”

“Oh really?” Draco said.

“I didn’t—I just meant,” Hermione stammered. Her voice took on a muffled sound; she must be talking into her hands. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Moaning ‘Oh, Merlin’ like that is only digging you in deeper, Granger,” Draco said. “Relax. It’s probably better you weren’t there. It was snowing, remember. You wouldn’t have seen me at my best.”

“Debatable,” Hermione said. “You were right. This sounds like a much better version of you than the one I saw when we were at school.”

Draco frowned. He traced his finger along a groove between the stones in the floor. “Is there even a point in me saying I’m sorry for how I acted, back then? You must feel like things are different now, or you’d have stopped coming ages ago.”

“Yes, there would be. Even if you have a decent guess at how someone feels, it’s nice to hear it.”

“All right. Well, I am. Sorry.”

There was a pause. “Oh, wait, is that it?”

“You were expecting more?”

She started laughing. “I expected a lot less when I first saw you in here, but yes, that was utterly anticlimactic as an apology.” Her hand darted through the tray slat, though, and caught his. “I forgive you.”

And she was right, it was good to hear it. Draco reached with his opposite hand for another chocolate, not letting go of Granger. This one was hazelnut praline in some of the silkiest, creamiest milk chocolate Draco had ever tasted.

“What are you going to do when you get out of here?” Hermione said.

“You sound sure of that.”

“You have a sound case. The fact that they agreed to your appeal at all speaks to that.”

Draco shifted to settle his back against the door, tipping his head back. “You tell me. I didn’t leave my house for years before I set foot in Azkaban. Who knows how Wizarding society has changed in my absence? What do you think I’d be good for?”

“A lot depends on you, of course,” Hermione said. “You told me you wanted to be a Healer. You’d probably have to work on your bedside manner a bit more before I’d recommend you work with patients, but certainly developing Healing potions seems like a good fit for you. You were always good at Potions class at school. I spent hours working to get mine to come out as balanced as yours did. If you decided against the Healer route, though, you have elegant taste, so I could see you as a perfumer, perhaps? That would keep you in the wealthier circles, if you wanted that. But who knows, maybe you’ll surprise everyone.”

“I have to get out first,” Draco said, although he’d closed his eyes, listening to her. He liked the way she mused over possibilities, toying with one or discarding another, as though he could pluck one of those futures up like a new robe from a rack. He curled his fingers tighter around Granger’s. “How did you know to come tonight?”

“I told you I wanted to stay overnight. I arranged some precautions and came. Why?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you.” It was improbable enough that Granger had looked past the Death Eater stain on his name. “Friend of Dementors” didn’t exactly weigh in his favor, but if anyone had a hope of understanding what had happened between him and the light-gray specter that had fixated on him, it was the witch who had shared her time and her mind when it would have been easy to let him waste away.

“Dementors can do more to people than suck their souls out with the Kiss,” he said. “It came two nights ago. It grabbed me, and I thought I was done for, but then it—communicated with me, somehow.”

“Are you serious? Like, in words? It spoke to you?”

“Not with words. That’s what made it difficult to understand. It was more like with us, with Occlumency, or a twisted version of it. I could see impressions of things it’s seen.”

“Hang on.” Her hand pulled away. There was a rustle, and then she reached for him again. “Okay. I’ve got my notebook ready. Tell me everything.”

He told her about the vision of flying on the back of another Dementor. “Then it started showing me things in here. It wasn’t as clear. I don’t think it understood all of what it was seeing, so things got jumbled. I saw figures in black hoods. I thought they were more Dementors at first, but they were stomping around in heavy boots. I don’t know if they really had hoods on, or if the Dementor only understands what other Dementors look like, so it imagined hoods when it couldn’t remember people’s faces. They had wands. They were the ones who changed the doors. Then one of them took out a flask, with a thick potion inside, like oil, and painted a symbol on the door. When a Dementor went past the door, the Dementor turned weird. Like,  _ hollow. _ That’s the way Cinnamon remembers the feeling. They have minds, the Dementors, in a way. At least some of them.”

“Cinnamon certainly does,” Hermione said. “I’ve even seen it make gestures that reminded me of you.”

Draco’s stomach pinched. “Oh, I remind you of a Dementor, Granger? That’s flattering.”

“No, that’s not what I said. It’s learned from you, not the other way around.”

“Cinnamon started to get close, but there was a bad feeling in its head, like getting closer to that oily stuff would make it go blank or hollow, so it got itself away. I think it was scared.”

“What would scare a Dementor?” 

“I don’t know,” Draco said. He looked at the tray slat. He could see a strip of the fabric of Granger’s skirt, she was pressed up so close to him. He wondered what the door looked like from her side. “It showed me my door, at the end. Things got a little fuzzy. Its concept of time isn’t great. I couldn’t make out for sure whether it meant that they were coming for my door next, or if they already had. I don’t know what happens after that.”

“I think I do,” Hermione said darkly. “Change of plans. I’m not going on a walk through Azkaban after all. I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave you alone tonight.”

* 

High above the waves, Theo Nott was flying. Not on one of the skittish, fragile-boned Thestrals he visited in the herd the Ministry secluded for study. This Thestral was sturdier, thick-necked and sharp-hooved, with callouses on the spots where the wings rubbed against the harness. It came from the Aurors’ herd. Being a celebrity, Potter acknowledged, had its perks. Keys to the stables being among them.

Theo wasn’t sitting quite as easily astride his Thestral as he’d hoped. It was nothing like riding a broom. The Thestral’s wings swung in odd directions to support the weight of its haunches, and every rollicking sweep lurched in Theo’s stomach. He wondered if the mare could even hold him. 

He was eyeing the nesting brume. He’d read about the cloud-like material Dementors wove. This was the first time he’d seen it this close. He was weighing the idea of nudging his Thestral closer still.

“Think we could get a look at it?” he shouted at Potter. He flicked the reins, and his Thestral tossed its head at the cloudy mass.

“Isn’t that where all the Dementors would be, if they aren’t inside?” Potter called back. 

“This is the only place they nest it this thick,” Theo said. It would be easier to explain this if he and Potter were on the ground, having a pint maybe in one of the pubs on Knockturn where you found people who spent their lives chasing after monsters. And if Potter had done a Dark Magic practicum to learn why the Magical community hadn’t just worked to wipe out the Dark creatures. There was a difference between Dark and evil that the mastery professors took care to distinguish, and another time Theo might have tried to explain to Potter how that called to him. In midair, he only shouted, “Charon won’t tell me, and I’m never going to get another chance to see it like this. I need to know.”

Potter guided his Thestral in a tight loop, looking for a gap in the brume. “There, maybe. Right over the fortress. There’s an opening. If we can get up over it without having to cut through it, maybe you can get a better look?”

The haze did seem to lift where Potter pointed. It maybe seemed thinner, although Theo found it difficult to make out how far up the gap went. Still.

“Worth a try!” he called, and urged his Thestral toward it.

The Thestral did not want to fly upward. It was difficult for the animal to maneuver straight up in a column, especially with a rider. It kept wanting to find a place where it could fly straight, and Theo had to drag on the reins and coax the Thestral into a tight, tiring spiral.

Most Dementors didn’t need sleep, was the thing. In other parts of the world where people studied Dementors and similar wraiths, you didn’t get masses of the stuff like this. Even something like a Bogwraith used their spume to catch prey, not as habitational space. The Azkaban colony was the largest known group of Dementors acting in a semi-symbiotic state with humanity. In the wild, you saw Rogues or colonies that were typically only large enough to sustain a human cache of a dozen or so at a time. It was considered a remarkable achievement in some academic circles that British Wizarding had managed to retain control over so many Dementors, but the field was frankly starving for more thorough study.

The nesting brume was encroaching in closer. Theo had to make the Thestral circle itself too tight. He was going to have to cut this effort off and make his way back down, but he was close enough now to see shapes inside the hazy swirls. He reached out and touched part of the nesting brume.

It was like biting down hard on metal instead of food. The inside of Theo’s head lurched with fragmented  _ hunger fear need despair crave gobble panic  _ ribboning through his mind. He yanked his hand back with a harsh, hurt cry. Whatever the Dementors were doing in the time they spent in the nesting brume, it didn’t feel like it could be restorative, if it felt like that.

“It’s getting too thick overhead!” Theo shout-whispered back at Potter, trying not to disturb the shapes inside the haze. “We’ve got to get back down.”

If Theo hadn’t wanted to inspect the brume, or if the gap in the center had gone all the way through and let him explore overhead, he would have missed what he saw next. It was only because he was guiding his Thestral down through a tight space, looking down from directly over the prison, that he noticed a dark movement flutter toward a section of wall that had been obscured before.

As Theo watched, a Dementor peeled out of a low-hanging wisp of nesting brume. He knew it only looked like it had taken shape out of that nightmarish cloud. Dementors were corporeal, and extremely adept at blending with their atmosphere. The little primordial voice in the base of his brain still told him that the Dementor had made itself out of the same darkness curling around Theo. He pointed it out to Harry.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Potter said. “What’s it doing?”

It was crawling on the wall now, rotting cloak billowing behind it. It was headed toward a window.

“That’s not colony behavior,” Theo said. “That looks like a predatory pattern—shit, it’s taking its hood down, Potter, that’s predation—”

Potter kicked his heels into his Thestral’s flank and pelted down toward the window. A stream of silver rushed from his wand and flared into a glowing stag. Theo was almost blinded by the after-image of Potter framed in a burst of silvery, antlered light, and then he heard Potter swear.

“Can’t tell if I got it. They just melt into the shadows. Come on,” he barked, and he swooped his Thestral closer to the gap in the stone.

“The hell do you think you’re going to do Potter? It’s a Thestral, not a bloody hummingbird, you can’t make it hover,” Theo shouted, but he urged his to follow.

Potter was apparently not going to make his Thestral hover. Potter was apparently a lunatic with a death wish who was going to make a grab for the bars of the window in mid-flight and shimmy himself onto the sill. Theo couldn’t make out what what happening inside the cell, but Potter didn’t look happy. Theo watched him cast his Patronus again, directly into the cell, and then send several blasts against the stones lining the window.

“Potter, you ass, you’re going to blast yourself off the window!” he yelled.

“Come give me a hand! We’ve got to get inside, fast!”

Theo glanced out at the dark sea, as though someone was going to pop out and say of course Potter was joking. A dry voice in the back of his mind said at least he knew roughly the kind of fines and probationary sentencing he could expect from kidnapping a Thestral. They’d probably have to draft up new paperwork at the Ministry to deal with whatever he and Potter were doing here. Theo bit his lip and snapped the reins, angling as close as he could to the stone wall.

He forgot to twist himself sidesaddle, so he had to take a second pass, and there was a terrifying moment where he leapt with only Potter’s elbow crooked around him to keep him from plummeting onto the rocks, but then his foot skidded onto the windowsill and wedged between the bars. 

Potter hit the stones on the side with another wand blast. “It just needs to be a little wider.” He nudged his shoulder partway through the opening with a grunt. 

Theo could see a slumped form in the cell. “Potter, duck,” he said, pointing his wand.  _ “Liquesco.” _

The Liquefying spell hit the crack between two stones at the side of the window. One wobbled like a tooth in the oozing mortar. Potter heaved at it, and the stone came free and dropped out of sight. Potter shoved his shoulders through and scraped through the bars. Theo sucked himself in even skinnier than he already was and followed, rough edges of broken stone grating against his back.

Potter sank in a one-knee crouch beside the prisoner. He shook his head. “There was another one inside already. It was already performing the Kiss. But it came through the door.” 

The stag Patronus glowed at the threshold. The Dementor had fled without closing the door behind it. Theo was still looking at the prisoner at Potter’s feet.

“Potter. Is that my dad?”

“Oh, shit,” Potter said. He shifted so he wasn’t blocking the Patronus light from the prisoner’s face.

Theo stood very still. This was part of the plan, of course. Well, not  _ part of the plan, _ not what was supposed to happen tonight. He’d skipped Nott Senior’s trial. Merlin knew he had no intention to visit. He’d been making changes to scrub the obvious marks of his father from the Manor, and he had every intention of making more. The plan had long been that Theo would only see his father again to formally identify the body. 

He just hadn’t expected that to be now.

Maybe this sort of thing was easier if the body in question looked foreboding. Some harsh-featured type that would cast fierce shadows in the silver light, even in death. Nott Senior had never been a particularly large man, and he’d thinned more in here, and the gray hair showed without the concealing potion. His face was nondescript. It had always been the way he contorted his face, the things he said and did that made him so frightening. Crumpled on the floor like this, he just looked small, like Theo should have always been able to brush off someone so pitiful. 

“Theo?” Potter said, and Theo felt a rush of gratitude and a weird sense of embarrassment that in this moment Potter understood well enough to call Theo by the name that was solely his. “I’m not trying to be a dick, but I don’t know how long we have until other Dementors catch wind that we’re here. This seems like something Hermione should know about. She said Malfoy’s at the far end of the East Wing. I want to make a go for it. You all right to come?”

“I’ve seen as much of him as I need to,” Theo said. “I’m coming with you.”

Easier said than done. Hermione had sketched them a copy of her schema of colony movement patterns, but there were so many curving arrows and overlapping notations that Theo and Harry couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Harry had to leave his Patronus to guard the cell door so another Dementor didn’t close it, which meant they were both unprotected and on an unknown deadline until the normal colony Dementors came across the Rogue’s attack scene and clear evidence of a prison security breach.

Turning a corner, they froze at the sight of a cloak just slipping out of sight. Theo grabbed the back of Potter’s shirt.

“We can’t be out in the open,” he whispered. “It’ll feel our emotions any second. We need to hide until it’s out of range.”

Potter looked around. “There—that door’s normal. Must be a supply closet.” He hustled Theo along by the elbow and cast an Alohomora. He peeked inside. “Oh, huh. It’s an office.”

“Dementors don’t need an office,” Theo said. He shoved Potter ahead and shut the door behind them.

Even before his eyes adjusted, Theo knew this wasn’t merely an office. It was an archive. The smell of vellum and the chalk dust that protected it prickled Theo’s nose. Theo cupped his hand around the tip of his wand before murmuring, “Lumos.” He let the light glow through the places where his fingers met. Who knew if the books on these shelves were delicate enough to be damaged by strong wandlight?

Only a few shelves lined the walls of a room barely larger than a Ministry Floo chamber. The archive was small—but then, Theo expected it to be. He tipped his head to the side, taking note of the rare runes on the binding. Even a collection of a few dozen books was a monumental source of material, if it came from one family.

“Nott, we need to figure out our next move,” Potter said.

“Ssh, wait.”

“We need to find Hermione.”

“Potter,  _ shut up,” _ Theo said. “Do you realize what these are?”

He eased one of the older-looking volumes free, cradled it in the bend of his arm, and used the back of his fingernail to lift the cover. Skin oils weren’t good for vellum.

His heart sank as he turned pages. The runes pressed in so thick each page was almost a black wall, its own tiny fortress. Theo had read centuries-old texts before, and he knew at least a smattering of the all the Runic forms (often more than that). This wasn’t any of them. Theo had heard of familial runes, archaic forms of writing that passed down strictly within one bloodline. They were rare, with the main examples being a few royal families in territories that had faced constant threat from Magical and Muggle usurpers alike. But of course,  _ of course _ the ferrykeepers would have devised their own written language to record their secrets. Even if Theo could decipher the characters, he’d stake his reputation as a Slytherin that the meaning of the text itself followed old code words, as well. Maybe even an archaic dialect, mutated into a family code. Theo was holding one of the most prized, most guarded codices in his field, and there was no way for him to read a single word.

He scanned the bindings on the rest of the books. Not that it would do him much good.

“They don’t even need to bother hiding these. They’re protected in the fortress, and no one outside the ferrykeepers’ bloodline can make sense of them,” Theo said.

“These are those books you were talking about?” Potter said. “Couldn’t the Ministry take them, if they’re in here?”

“They wouldn’t risk it. The ferrykeepers are the only ones who can guarantee safe passage to Azkaban, and the Ministry needs that access. And who knows what else Charon could do? Maybe he could make the Dementors abandon Azkaban altogether, if the Ministry acts out against his family. As long as the Dementors are doing what the Ministry wants, there’s no reason for them to bother with this.”

Potter shoved his hands in his pockets. His shoulders squared back, and when he paced the room, it was with the smooth stride of an Auror on patrol. “They’re not doing what the Ministry wants, though, are they? I thought that was the whole problem here. Dementors were suspicious at best in the War, too. It doesn’t add up. The Ministry’s been trying to get better control over the Dementors, so if they had access to a resource like this, they’d use it. They haven’t taken the books, so maybe Charon’s cooperating with them. Or they don’t trust him with intel on what they’re doing, in case he moves the books himself or sets off the Dementors like you said, so they’re leaving everything in place and doing their own business in secret.”

“What sort of business?” Theo said.

“Nothing they want most people knowing about,” Potter said. He fired several spells in quick succession, Auror scan-and-reveal protocol. One spell flashed a different light, and there was a satisfying  _ Ping!  _

Potter crouched by a drawer that had sprung open. “Jackpot.” He pulled out a stack of parchments. He frowned at one. “Nott, you’re the Dementor nerd. See what you make of this.”

“LV activated latent instinct,” one parchment read. “Colony rising was threat—now possible opportunity. Hold strong position against outlying DE cells. Action items: investigate poss. cooperation with ferrykeepers, question DE detainees.”

Theo turned to another page. “Unsure whether flux is temporary response to shifting thaum force or permanent. Advise swift action. End of magical malleability or adoption of unapproved nexus both negative outcomes.” He frowned. “They’re noting unusual patterns in colony behavior. My professors said some of that’s expected in the immediate post-war period. The Dementors were actively involved in Death Eater activity, so they may be especially susceptible to human influence for an undefined amount of time.”

“Nott, look at this for a second. They’ve got you on this list,” Potter said.

Theo took the sheaf of parchment from him. He skimmed the list and flipped through the rest of the papers. Copies of Ministry work contracts for him, Pansy, Greg Goyle, Cyg Rosier, Flora and Hestia Carrow. Records of their Gringotts transaction history. Medical records: Goyle had apparently spent just over a year seeing a Mind Healer in an outpatient program through St. Mungo’s, and someone had jotted “indefinite recommittal?” in the margins. 

Theo’s name was circled in red ink. 

Pansy’s name was circled, too. The words “find something” slashed in the margin. The parchment clipped to it listed the crimes she’d been charged with, itemized.

“‘Used internal Ministry power to designate Millicent Bulstrode as Accounts Manager, despite more qualified candidate applications available,’” Theo read. “That’s basically her giving a friend a little leg up, right? Who doesn’t do that?”

She had a date written next to her name.

“That’s when she got arrested, right?” Potter said. 

Theo shoved the parchment back at Potter and stepped backward. He felt like his fingertips were singed. “All of us got hired within weeks of each other, right after the war. It was a trap. The war left a power vacuum. Whatever they’re trying to do with the Dementors is only one half of it. They need to clear space in the Sacred 28. The whole jobs program was a sham from the beginning. It gave them access to our records, and it lets them say, look, we gave them a chance, not our fault if they turned out rotten. They’ll make up some tragic name for us in the  _ Prophet,  _ like the Lost Heirs, and as soon as we’re out of the way, the more deserving Purebloods will come grasping for our place.”

Potter actually looked shocked. “You think your boss is in on whatever this is?”

Theo opened his mouth to make a sharp retort, then stopped. “Maybe not Debra. But whoever put her in charge of a program to rehire and ‘rehabilitate’ kids from the dark side of the 28. Debra’s about to retire. Sticking her in charge of few new hires deep in Department of Mysteries minutia probably seemed like a reward. She gets a cushy spot to ride out a quiet last few years. Next year, as soon as they cut the cake for her retirement, she pops off to Bora Bora and never spares us another thought. Then whoever in the Ministry’s really after us would be clear to pick us off, one by one. Maybe they figured we really would burn out for the most part, and they’d polish off the stragglers with a few well-timed accidents.”

“Nott, come on, this looks bad, and I know the Ministry’s done some underhanded stuff before, but they can’t think they’d be able to kill a dozen people without anyone catching on. People would riot in the streets.”

Theo’s throat was too hoarse to laugh. “Who the fuck would care if the Death Eater’s kids turned out to be criminals and burnouts? Who would even be surprised? It was never going to matter what I did to make something out of myself. No wonder no one’s bothered saying anything about my work, or lack thereof. They just need me close enough to pin some allegation to, when the time comes.”

Potter ran his hands through his hair. “Merlin. Okay. Hang on, let’s think straight about this. Even if there’s some plot putting 28 heirs in danger, you still can’t have a string of ‘accidents’ happen on top of each other without at least some people getting suspicious.”

Theo shrugged. “Draco’s appeal’s gone through. Dementors and Thestrals are behaving erratically. There’s more fallout from the war then they accounted for, and the more unpredictable events happen, the harder it’ll be to carry out plans smoothly. They’re running out of time.”

*

His lips were on her. 

Hermione opened her eyes in blue darkness, disoriented, something like a gasp caught in her mouth. Her mind was spun up soft and sweet and tasting like expensive chocolate and—and something else. Someone else’s breath. A hand sweeping over her skin, smoother and finer than the most expensive clothing she’d ever touched, scooping up her back to grip her neck where it met the curve of her skull. She’d touched the temple so gently with the backs of her fingers, felt the cheekbone angle she’d memorized somehow by living in that body, or in the Occlumency image of that body, and she’d leaned into the kiss she knew was coming. But didn’t she also still feel the warm silk of curls wrapping around her fingers? She’d been aching in her dream for the taste of a mouth, but who had she been, in that dream, and whose lips was she reaching for?

Hermione was still afraid to move too quickly. It seemed to her that the breath she still held in her mouth didn’t only taste like her own. She felt a keening tug back toward sleep, to close her eyes again and pick the dream up again just where she’d left off. And holding so still made it possible for her to notice several things.

  1. Draco’s lips really were on her. Not on her mouth, but on the backs of her fingers. Sometime in his sleep, he’d pulled her hand closer to his face, or pressed up closer to her, and his lips were on her skin. They were parted.
  2. She could tell by his breath that he was awake.
  3. She knew, whether by his breath or from whatever tendrils of their minds hadn’t yet unwound themselves from each other, that he had at least a good idea (more than that, intimately more) of what she’d been thinking.



Hermione let out the breath. She meant to turn it into a self-deprecating laugh, but there was a catch of desire that she didn’t know if she wanted Malfoy to ignore, or deeply hoped he’d notice.

“Can you imagine?” she said, hoping she sounded breezier than she felt. “Kissing in here?”

An ironic lilt to Malfoy’s voice. “Whatever would the company think?”

“What happened?” Hermione said. “You fell asleep.”

“Seems you did, too.”

“Yes.” She didn’t remember falling asleep, although that was hardly unusual. She remembered him getting his blanket to curl up close to the tray slot and her saying  _ Do you want me to?  _ and him saying  _ If you want _ in a way that sounded like  _ please,  _ and her casting a warm extension of her mind over for him while he slept. That was why their dreams blended, then. She must have drifted off still intermingled with him. Maybe his sleep had even been what lulled her, too; Hermione was a fast learner but Draco’s strength of mind in Occlumency was impressive. She was sensitive to it, sensitive to him.

So what, then, had woken her up?

Hermione pulled her hand free to reach for her wand. For a second, she could almost think the lurch of sadness was because she’d liked holding someone’s hand and now it was gone. Then the sadness yawned into a hopeless abyss, and the Dementors came into view. 

It was hard to know for sure how many Dementors there were. Cloak flowed into cloak, hoods slipped in and out of shadows. The rattling breath shook in the spaces between Hermione’s ribs and swallowed the world.

“Expecto patronum,” she whispered through numb lips.

Hermione could cast a full Patronus. That in and of itself was an advanced and powerful feat of magic. Being able to produce one in stressful circumstances, a battle or a Dementor attack, was a separate feat, and this was where Hermione had struggled before. 

When Harry and Ron were beside her, it was different. She’d felt part of something extraordinary then. Hermione had often felt like the odd one out before meeting them, the only child and the weird girl at primary school and the Muggleborn girl who couldn’t make friends, who spent a feast night crying in a bathroom until a troll attacked her. Ron was gone, and Harry was keeping things from her, only in on this adventure as a reluctant favor. She was on the outside again, and when she lifted her wand, nothing wanted to come.

“Anytime, Granger! What are you waiting for?” Malfoy said.

Hermione couldn’t answer. The same images she’d shown Malfoy, the images she’d conjured countless times before, poured back into her mind, trailing down the thread of thought still linking her to him. Her parents, the way their faces twisted with dread rather than hope when she finally found them in Australia, the way they looked at each other instead of her and told her no, they wouldn’t be returning to England, the empty seats, the interminable tinny ringing every week while she braced herself for the day they wouldn’t pick up.

More memories appeared then, hers but not quite hers. The perspective wasn’t quite right, but there she was with her mother and father. The first time they ever went to Diagon Alley as a family to buy her school things. Her father napping on the sofa with Crookshanks sprawled over him. Times when her father said “Monica” and her mother said, “It’s Jean, darling, we need to practice,” and Hermione’s heart hurt with hope. And, not hers but somehow familiar anyway, the memory of waiting to enter a Wizengamot courtroom and thinking, “You stand for this family.” That was what it meant to belong to someone: to stand for them even when they were gone because it meant you were still someone they’d be proud of.

_ “Expecto patronum,” _ she said again, more firmly. This time, there was a sputter of silver and the otter burst free.

The nearest Dementor hissed when the Patronus light touched it. It sank back. The others flinched back, too, rotten cloth flowing over the stone floors as they retreated. Hermione pressed her back against the cell door. She was shivering.

Her otter, instead of dissolving into a glittering splash of light or disappearing back into her wand, dove under the tray slat into Malfoy’s cell. Hermione heard him cry out in surprise.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“There’s so much light,” he said. “It’s everywhere.”

“How did you do that?” Hermione said. Even without Malfoy’s own memory at the end, she knew the timbre of his thought. She could recognize the way he’d tell her her memories. “There were so many Dementors. They came out of nowhere. I didn’t have time to think. How could you keep remembering happy thoughts when I couldn’t?”

“They can take my happy memories away from me. Those were yours.” Malfoy was quiet for a moment. “They were coming for me.”

“Yes, it certainly looked that way.”

“Someone in the Ministry is going to be angry tomorrow when I’m not dead.”

Hermione folded her arms around her knees. “Probably, yes.”

It wasn’t fair. All Hermione could think was what if she’d waited one more night to come, and whispered his name through the tray slat and heard nothing but silence. What if she’d convinced someone to open the door and he was lying there in darkness and everything that made him clever and unexpected and hopeful and perceptive, everything that made him  _ him  _ was gone? It wasn’t enough for a stroke of luck in her timing to save him. It wasn’t right that he’d spent months in a room that had taken until now to fill with light.

“Granger, are you making it do this?” Malfoy said. There was a fragile note in his voice that Hermione couldn’t remember hearing before.

“What’s it doing?”

“It’s,” he said, and cleared his throat. “It’s come and pressed up to me. It’s sort of...letting me hold it? It touched my face.”

Hermione perked up, although of course the sheet of metal was in the way as always. “That’s interesting. It doesn’t do that with me. Are you saying you can feel it?”

“No? Not exactly. It seems like it can feel me, it’s leaning against my chest. I can see where the fur bends. I feel—” He broke off. Hermione counted several of her own breaths before Malfoy said, “It’s like what you and I do. I feel it like it’s part of me.”

The Patronus stayed with them for a long time. Hermione could feel the security of its presence and see the faint glow from the tray slat. Once, she heard Malfoy murmur, “Look how beautiful you are.” The tension and adrenaline was gone, and she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

*

“Hermione Granger?” The rough voice pierced the fragile dream Hermione had been dreaming. There was a tremulous instant where she knew she was losing something irreplaceably beautiful, and then the dream slipped away completely. Dawn had barely reached Azkaban. Hermione cast a Lumos to reveal a broad-shouldered wizard dressed in the formal battle robes of a Wizengamot Enforcer.

“We traced a Patronus spell cast by your wand to this location. It’s dated last night, between two and four-fifteen in the morning. There are no records indicating an approved visitation of Azkaban at that time. You are considered a person of interest subject to Ministry questioning in regards to interference with Azkaban Dementors in the pursuance of official duties, abuse of access to secured Ministry facilities, and third-degree collusion with convicted criminals.” The Enforcer checked a small roll of parchment. “Prisoner E-12801X, Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are hereby considered in defiance of orderly conduct and may be subject to a disciplinary referendum, pending official review from the Wizengamot.”

“That’s preposterous,” Hermione said. 

“Questioning is standard procedure for abnormal spellcasts performed by people under the Ministry Trace system, Ms. Granger,” the Enforcer said. “If it turns out all is in order, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“And what about me?” The sharp fear in Draco’s voice was clear to Hermione even without Occlumency. “What do you mean, disciplinary referendum?”

“Could mean parole denial, could mean they reopen consideration of sentencing the Kiss,” the Enforcer said. “Bloody Death Eater scum. It’d be what you deserve.”

“He’s already approved for an appeal hearing by a higher court! The Wizengamot can’t supercede that.” 

“Things change. Now, Ms. Granger, if you please. People want to speak with you. Let’s not keep them waiting.” 

“Don’t leave  _ don’t leave,”  _ Draco said, and then the Enforcer took Hermione by the upper arms and pulled her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took FOREVER to write! Thank you so much for reaching out, and for coming back to read this story again after a longer stretch between chapters than I planned. You always make me feel like a person first and foremost, which is so reassuring when the writing is going slowly.
> 
> Fun trivia fact: Peredur is a rare variant of the name Percival, which means "pierce the veil." I was looking for interesting French names for an upscale chocolatier, and I thought this captured so much about Draco and Hermione's relationship.
> 
> I don't have a specific schedule for the next few chapters, unfortunately. Winter in a pandemic definitely has its rough moments. I'm writing this fic probably 3-4 days/week lately, but I'm trying to do better about not pressuring myself to have a posting deadline so I can keep the writing enjoyable and sustainable. I hope this chapter brings some joy in your day, and I'm already looking forward to having another ready for you.
> 
> Question: Hermione treats herself with fancy chocolate. What is something (preferably under $50) that you've splurged on to treat yourself lately? I'm a fan of Thymes Frasier Fir candles, which make my whole house smell like Christmas. I've also learned via Rachel Syme on Twitter that you can order teeny samples of different perfumes, and I love picking out something that reminds me of a character or place I love.


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